


Magnum Load

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-05
Updated: 2003-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-27 06:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12075150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Brian and Justin weather new jobs and another level to their relationship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Brian in jeans and blue shirt, cordless phone to his ear, stood like a dark shadow against daylight filtering through the Loft window sheers.

“I’ll hold,” he exhaled, glanced at 9 AM on a digital clock on his bar cart, parted the sheers with his free hand and gazed at busy Tremont. Something he’d always dreaded, now missed – traffic heading to work.

Past the bedroom, source hidden by the glass doors, a light tap-tap-tap - bang – Bang - BANG that made him wince and glance back before a quick, “Yes, I’ll keep holding” then “Fuck.” He stared at the phone singing a dial tone. Fucking disconnected.

Tap-tap-tap. Bang. Bang. BANG.

“What are you doing?” Brian’s yelled across the near-empty Loft.

Justin shouted back, “Painting.”

“With WHAT?” Brian set the phone aside, trailed around the bedroom to Justin’s work corner.

“Acrylics.” Kneeling beside a two-by-three foot wooden frame on a white cloth remnant, Justin placed a corrugated metal strip on a corner joint, rested a hammer on it for aim, lightly tap-tap-tapped to get it started then triple-banged it home.

“No wonder most great artists are dead,” Brian rubbed a temple, “Disgruntled neighbors.”

Drama queen, Justin rolled his eyes, sat back on his legs. “I’m making a stretcher. Pre-made ones cost too much.” Justin lifted a cloth edge and folded it over the frame. “After I tack all these edges down, I’ll have a framed canvas,” he sunny-smiled up, proud of his frugal genius.

Brian smiled back his approval, noticed a photo standing on the easel and moved to snatch it. “Is that what you’re painting?”

Justin’s smile drooped and he couldn’t rise on cramped legs fast enough to intercept, so he settled back and watched Brian’s brows knit. “It’s a freelance job.”

“They’re not paying you enough.”

“I think a hundred dollars is pretty damned good.”

“For a painting of a TWAT? Ah…I get it. An anniversary gift from Melbert to Linz.”

Justin struggled to his feet and whipped the photo from Brian’s hand, “Not for them. It’s for a wall hanging, and I’m abstracting it so only the buyers know what it is. Don’t you have something to do?” he set the photo back on the easel tray.

Brian reached out and touched Justin’s shoulder in wordless apology. “Hey.” He coaxed Justin around, moved close and stared down into his eyes. “If anyone can make a twat look respectable…it’s you.”

Justin’s smile curled up for a brief moment before hardening at Brian’s double-entendre grin. “You asshole,” he lightly pushed Brian away, wryed a smile at Brian’s gotcha chuckle. “Someday you’ll say something astoundingly nice to me and your dick’ll fall off.” He knelt to finish his work and ignore his heckler.

With silent affection, Brian watched the back of Justin’s shaggy blond head. Watched his focus as he set another fastener, watched his hand grab the hammer. Drop it. Then shake out his hand and rub it with the other. It drew Brian’s concern and a quick move to the opposite side of the work. “Need some help with that?” Brian dropped to one knee.

“I can do it.”

“And I can’t?” Brian snorted, grabbed the hammer, centered the fastener and tapped. “How’s the hand doing?” he said to the fastener as he banged it in. Sounded more like casual conversation if he didn’t direct stare.

“Okay. Tightens up once in awhile, but it goes away.” Justin reached for another fastener with his left hand, cradled the right in his lap. “Don’t center it. I need two in each corner to keep it stable.”

“Yes, SIR,” Brian took the offer, eyes on Justin’s hands before turning back to hammering. “When’s your next checkup?”

“Don’t need one,” Justin handed Brian another fastener. “Specialists are just over-priced doctors who count on hypochondriacs to pay off their student loans.”

Brian whacked the fastener in with two hard hits. He could say, forget the money and GO – and really piss Justin off. But before he could think of a better way to put it, Justin changed the drift.

“So who were you calling?”

“WaveLight,” Brian mumbled, set another fastener on the last corner.

“You put your application in with…” Justin leaned back, eyes wide, “I thought you said they were a low-rate bunch of fogies with no vision.”

“Every BIG agency has its stars…politics. WaveLight’s small, their CEO is about to retire, and they’ve gone flat. Maybe I can change that…” Brian knit his brows, “…if I could just get an inside track on who’s replacing him,” and nailed the metal in two hard whacks that nearly split the wood.

Justin flinched at the sight and sound of Brian’s unleashed frustration. His hand stopped Brian’s mid-reach for a fastener then he leaned into Brian’s view. “You will. You can do anything you want.” He said it with a soft smile, briefly closed his eyes to accept Brian’s quick kiss. “Ready for a break?”

“Depends on what kind,” Brian raised a brow.

“Just give me a few minutes,” Justin wrinkled his nose, worked to a stand and brushed the back of his hand against Brian’s cheek before climbing the steps to the bedroom. If no other success story every graced his life, he knew how to get Brian up. His claim to a lifetime achievement beyond anyone else’s reach.

 

* * * * *

Justin opened the bathroom linen closet, stared at the last two bath towels and snatched one out. He glanced at the hamper and exhaled a breath at the sight of its lid propped up by overflow laundry. Then he turned to the sink, set the towel aside, ran water and opened a drawer for an empty plastic bottle. No problem filling it with his right hand, but he had to switch hands to attach the long nozzle.

 

* * * * *

Brian had just tossed his tee on the bed and undid his second jeans button when the phone rang. He skipped down steps to the bar cart, answered with one hand while working buttons with the other. “Brian Kinney.” He froze movement. “Mikey? Where the fuck ARE you?”

 

* * * * *

Pittsburgh’s Allegheny County Police Station hummed with enough activity to complicate Michael’s call. With Horvath playing peacemaker between Ben and Hunter’s fuming Mother, Rita, Michael had to press one hand to his free ear to continue.

“I’m at the Police Station. No, I’m not under arrest. Yeah, it’s parked outside. Goddammit, Brian – high test,” Michael swiveled around and saw Debbie – “Oh shit” - decked in vibrant color, hot for action with Vic trailing as damage control. “I’ll call you back.” He pocketed his cell. “Mom. I didn’t expect you to come down.”

Debbie perched a hand on her hip, got in Michael’s face and kept a low tone. “What the hell is going on?” she glanced at Horvath, Rita, and Ben edging away from them.

“Hunter’s mother tried to take him back, so I took him to Youth Services,” Michael glanced at approaching Ben, got a dim smile.

Rita’s angry voice grabbed attention. “Those two fags kidnapped my son and I’M wanted for questioning?”

“Mrs. Montgomery,” Horvath calmly answered, “Your son has made some pretty serious accusations -”

“Oh, that kid and his stories,” she switched to giggly sweet, “You can’t believe half of what kids say.” Then back to Mrs. Hyde. “And if he DID spout some wild lies, I’m sure those two put him up to it.” She glared from Ben to Michael.

Debbie’s eyes narrowed, she took a step toward Rita but Vic shot “No, Sis” grabbed one arm and Michael the other “Mom.”

Horvath smiled non-threatening. “That’s why we need to talk, Mrs. Montgomery. Your Advocate from Family Crisis is here to help you. Now would you PLEASE step into my office?” He aimed a palm-up hand at his door. 

She tossed a smile of recognition to a quaint Lady at Horvath’s desk, finally accepted his courtesy. But not before a searing look back. “What about THEM? Shouldn’t they be in jail?”

“I’m sure they’ll be properly dealt with,” Horvath nodded at them as he guided Rita into his office and shut the door.

Debbie watched with a mix of pity and anger. “With a mouth like that, hard to believe she’s a mother.” She wide-eyed Vic’s steady stare, turned to Michael and lightly slapped his cheek. “You did the right thing, Sweetheart.”

“It was Hunter’s idea. His decision,” Michael stared down. “He HATES the system. But he said we couldn’t run forever, and it was the only way.”

“We’ll get him out,” Ben slid his arm around Michael’s shoulder.

“Damn right we will,” Debbie nodded with conviction, primped her wig. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here. It’s my day off and I got work to do,” she led the parade, her expression tense with thoughts in motion.

 

* * * * *

Towel draping from an arm and half covering his naked body, Justin stepped from the bathroom and expected Brian to be ready for action, but the bed was empty.

“Brian?” Justin scanned around until he heard Brian’s “Yeah. Later” coming from the painting niche. He stepped to the doorway and looked down at Brian, shirtless and barefoot, sitting cross-legged beside the unfinished stretcher. In one hand, the phone. In the other, some photos. “WaveLight call back?”

“Mikey,” Brian looked up with strange resignation. “The good news is, he’s not in jail. And he’s bringing the car back.”

“That IS good news. Are you snooping through my stuff?”

“Who’s Grumpy and Goofy?” Brian flashed a picture of a homely couple Justin’s way.

Justin shrugged, “It’s for a portrait. Fifty bucks. I TOLD you I was freelancing.” He took two steps down, sat back on the top step.

Brian shuffled and displayed a photo of a black dog, raised a questioning brow.

“Seventy-five. Animal lovers are a pushover.”

“Then you should post your card at Meathook,” Brian twitched a smile, set the photos aside, turned serious. “Are you planning on wearing yourself out?”

“Not by myself,” Justin flashed a coy smile, stood up, sauntered down the steps and nudged Brian’s shoulder with his foot. Forget that I’m working and you’re not. Right now. “Then at YOUR age…” Justin kicked his shoulder harder. Might as well make it a win-win endeavor.

Brian flinched, jumped to his feet and rifled off his jeans so his half-mast cock swung free. “You little fuck…I’m on to you.”

“Like you’ll EVER be on to me,” Justin shot through a laugh, turned and dashed up the steps with Brian hot behind him, sprang onto the bed and dropped the towel on the fly.

After a couple laps around and across the mattress, Brian caught Justin around the waist at the foot of the bed and threw both their sweaty bodies onto the cool sheets.

“Fuck about my age, hunh?” Brian snapped to his knees, sat back on his legs and rolled Justin belly down against his thighs, hard cock dropping between his splayed knees, ass up. Brian wrapped an arm around Justin’s waist and used his free hand to lay a loud smack low and center.

Justin gasped through a smile, chest down with arms bent out. He felt the heat and sting charge through him. Another smack, same spot. Another. He grunted and gripped the sheets and didn’t think about his hand. Or work, or anything else but the sensation.

Brian glanced at Justin’s closed eyes, clenched hands, back to the rosy blush rising on Justin’s ass, spaced a couple more smacks and heard a stifled “ow”. One more would do it. He wasn’t out to punish or hurt. Only intensify the fuck. He could feel Justin’s cock spearing and sliming his leg, his own cock trapped between their bodies and gorged to explosion. WHACK.

Justin kept his eyes closed, wet his lips, felt the sting and heat from the swats. Felt Brian’s arm retreat, damp thighs slide from under him. The shift of Brian’s weight on the mattress. Then the rip of a condom packet.

Brian straddled Justin’s thighs, gripped Justin’s hips and urged him up just enough to position a towel-covered pillow under him, then gently pressed against the small of his back to signal him down. He hesitated to marvel at Justin’s milky back, serene trust…slid his hands down the sweat sheen to Justin’s shoulders before he even realized he was doing it. Then braced his arms alongside Justin’s chest and leaned down to kiss his cheek while positioning his knees between Justin’s spreading legs.

Justin twisted his head to catch the kiss on his lips. He moaned softly when a finger lubed him, louder as Brian’s rigid cock eased through, waited, drove hard in, lifting him to his knees. He arched his back to meet and grip thrusts so deep, the friction of Brian’s skin against his heated ass sent waves of pleasure-pain straight to his cock. Then a new sensation of Brian’s hand working him. Matching his thrusts.

At their hot, wicked pace, they knew they wouldn’t last long. But sometimes short range high-intensity elevated release beyond the best marathon. This is for us, Justin thought and moaned in loud, short bursts as he came. Brian threw his head back with staccato grunts and one long groan before he collapsed onto Justin with just enough strength left to kiss his heaving shoulder. This is for us.

 

* * * * *

On his side under a sheet, Brian thought he felt the light tap of fingers on his shoulder, a puff of air that sounded like “Hey” on his face.

Justin, already dressed and on his side facing Brian, smiled brightly when the hazel eyes finally opened. “Hey.”

“What time is it?” Brian rasped.

“Two. I guess we wore each other out.”

Brian flexed his hand and stared at it. “I guess so.”

“Just don’t make a habit of that,” Justin noted the hand with a glance.

“You know what happens when you throw the Age card.”

“So you ARE on to me,” Justin stared off in a light blush.

“More than you know.” 

Justin planted a quick kiss on Brian’s lips, “I have to get over to the Diner. Want me to bring you back anything?” He flinched when Brian’s hand squeezed his crotch. “Besides that.” 

Brian did a slow blink, shook his head no.

“One last thing,” Justin leaned close, brushed a kiss against Brian’s cheek and seductively whispered near his ear, “It’s your turn to do the laundry.” He rolled off the bed, “Later,” and headed out leaving Brian in dark thought. 

From Top Exec to fucking cleaning lady. Fuck.

* * *

Brian stands in the bathroom doorway.

Song: “Help Me” by Junior Wells’ Chicago Blues Band


	2. Magnum Load

Brian stood in the bedroom doorway, hurled the laundry duffle to land with a hard thud…followed by three raps on his front door. Wary from the experience of past invaders, he took his time, mind-rehearsed a fuck-off speech and pulled the door open.

“Surprise!” Emmett beamed.

Michael held up jingling keys. “The ‘Vette’s out front.”

“Who’s your friend?” Brian pocketed his keys, squinted at a potted fig tree the size of a patio umbrella on the landing behind them.

Emmett chirped, “The minute I heard you sold your furniture, I thought – what a great idea. A blank canvas ready for a whole new look.” Then to Michael, “Give me a hand with this, Sweetie.”

Brian stood aside, crossed his arms as Emmett and Michael grabbed the sides of a brass roller and pulled the tree in. He shook his head at their “Wait. Wait. Watch it. Get that” as they awkwardly pushed branches to clear the door, trailed mangled leaves.

Michael passed Brian’s stare with a discreet “His insisted,” and pushed the giant tree center-Loft before rejoining Brian. 

Emmett gazed around, dimmed at his friend’s loss then brightened. “Look at all this space. I just knew this would be the perfect gift. It’ll fit – anywhere!” he waved his arms and spun to face Brian, “But I’d suggest the bedroom...if you could get a little more light in there. When I think of sleeping under a tree, two words come to mind-” 

“Ants and birdshit?”

“Try free? And natural?” Emmett prissed, recovered, “…although you do have a point. But there’s a lot you can avoid in a controlled environment.”

“Not always,” Brian stared at Em who was wandering the Loft for the perfect spot.

Michael whispered, “Go with it. He thought it would cheer you up.”

“Maybe. Will it hold a sling?”

Michael wide-eyed Brian’s Cheshire smile before shaking his head. “Come on, Emmett. I have to meet Mom at the house.”

Brian paused in thought, “I was just heading over there,” paced to the bedroom. “ Why don’t you boys meet me at the car,” he passed Emmett, “And take that down for me, if you don’t mind,” he motioned to the laundry.

“Glad to,” Emmett gushed. He tugged, finally had to stoop to swing it over his shoulder. “My god. WHAT is IN here.”

“A week’s worth of dried cum,” Brian clipped, disappeared into the bedroom.

“Oh REA-lly,” Emmett smiled wide. 

Until Michael’s low “He’s not kidding” made him wince as they left the Loft and shut the door.

Brian slipped on shoes, took the stairs by Justin’s work area and glanced at the desk lamp on the floor. On his way out, he flicked on the kitchen nightlight, panned the gray of fading daylight in a cavern too lean on lamps, pulled his cell from his pocket and scrolled through a dozen stored numbers before his display lit:

Scott Turner. 

 

* * * * *

The Diner cash register readout Change $16.00 had Justin’s main focus, his side-vision on the busy room until he caught a wave from the third person in line.

“Daph! What’re you doing here?” Justin handed out three bills, grabbed the next guy’s check and punched it in.

“I just got back from the Avenue Art Fest, and it was awesome. Why didn’t YOU enter?”

“Too busy,” Justin eyed his customer – “Ten dollars even. Thank you” – drawered the bill and finally got to Daphne . “Follow me,” he led her down the counter, stopped beside Kiki hustling coffee. “Kiki? Can I take five?”

“Down here.” Kiki swayed to a couple at the counter end by the pickup station, pulled their used plates with a gruff, “You’re done, right?” that sent them wordlessly packing. She nodded to Justin and winked at Daphne then turned back to business.

Justin, still behind the counter, motioned Daphne to a stool. “Want anything?”

“Whatever you’re having,” she sat down. “You know, you don’t have to keep paying rent since you’re hardly there anymore,” she watched him pour two colas. “So...are you two, like, moved in now?”

Justin slid one drink toward her but kept his eyes on it. “He didn’t ask. And I’m not about to ask HIM unless he lets me pay half the maintenance fees. I know he won’t. Like he thinks it’s charity or something.”

“But I thought...” Daphne tipped her head, smiled wide and double-raised her brows in a sex-is-great, love-is-great, life-is-great metaphor.

Justin leaned on crossed arms, stared at her. “We’re good...mostly. But sometimes...” he shrugged at the counter, “...nobody’s called him yet, and he’s been kinda restless,” he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Finding work takes time,” Daphne leaned close.

“With Brian, it’s like a matter of pride, and I don’t know how to help. Like sometimes I’m making it worse just by being there, doing MY work,” he sipped his drink. “I’d never let pride do that to me. Maybe I just don’t understand.”

They were startled by the Cook’s heavy hand on the call-bell and louder “Justin. Order’s up.”

“Gotta go. Later,” Justin turned, reached for a plate.

“Are you coming over tonight?”

Justin exhaled, looked away then back at her. “I’m not sure yet. Don’t wait up.”

Daphne nodded with a smile that flattened at Justin’s back after he passed her. He looked stressed. Worried. Not a word about the Art Festival – and that wasn’t like him.

 

* * * * *

In Novotny’s tiny laundry room, Michael leaned cross-armed in the doorframe, amused by Debbie’s conflict with Brian’s method.

She stood behind Brian, watched him dump an armload of mixed whites and darks into the toploader. “For fuck’s sake…give me that,” she pushed him aside, reached into the washer, dug the pile out. “You’d think being with Justin would’ve taught you SOMETHING. At least HE knows how to separate.”

Michael grinned, “Yeah, but Brian knows how to get somebody ELSE to – ahh!” Michael winced from Brian’s jab to his gut, hands spinning him around and shoving him out the door.

“It gives her purpose,” Brian breathed in his ear.

Michael halted, turned a sharp eye on Brian, heard Debbie growl “I don’t know what you boys would do without me” and conceded to Brian’s raised told-ya brow.

“How can you can make being an asshole look so benevolent,” Michael shook his head, turned to the kitchen.

“It’s a management skill,” Brian gripped the back of Michael’s neck and followed.

“You know…with all the time I need to work on Hunter’s deal…I could use some help at the Shop. Can’t pay much, but-” he felt Brian’s hand leave, twisted a look back at Brian’s darkened face.

“I’ve got things lined up,” Brian flatly stated. A line of callbacks due. Bills due.

“Yeah. Good,” Michael wasn’t buying, knew not to press.

They joined Ben, seated at the kitchen table and fiddling with a computer-printer setup.

“Any luck yet?” Michael parked a hand on Ben’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Campus surplus isn’t Cadillac, but we’re online and working,” Ben beamed up at Michael, then to Brian, “The only way to fight the system is from IN the system.”

“We’re petitioning to adopt Hunter,” Michael clarified.

Brian was skeptical. “Against his blood mother?”

Debbie flew in, voice booming, “Like the courts could GIVE a shit about this kid…rather put him in a whorehouse than see him happy with two decent, hard-working men who just happen to be gay. They want a mother? I’ll GIVE ‘em one,” she smacked Ben’s shoulder, toned down to Michael, “I know how much you want him, but sometimes you have to take what you can get, and work it for the best.” Then tougher to Ben, “Show me how to work that thing.”

Brian looked at Michael, tilted his head toward Debbie. Michael smiled wide and nodded. Two fags didn’t stand much chance, but one feisty Mother just might. Brian watched Debbie struggle with her foreign tool and thought about what she was willing to take on. And what she said.

 

* * * * *

Open briefcase on his desk, Brian batched 8x10 copies of past ads for a portfolio - Pool Boy, Brown, BioGen, EyeConic – when he heard a timid knock on his door. He answered, surprised to see Cynthia. 

“I…hope you don’t mind…I saw your car out front,” she mumbled softly before a firmer, “Are they ever going to fix your security door?”

“Next time Walmart has a sale. But I’m not exactly in a position to complain. Come on in.” 

“I can’t stay…just had a couple things to tell you.”

“If Gardner put you on notice, he’s an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

“No. I pitched my knowledge and appealed to his sense of ruthless ambition. I’ve been…” she stalled, looked down, “… handling your accounts.” Her eyes spot-checked his reaction before she flustered, “I didn’t want you to think -”

“It’s your chance,” Brian calmly breathed out, “Go for it. I wouldn’t respect you for doing any less.”

“You really mean that.”

“You’ve earned it, and don’t think I didn’t admire or take advantage of you. Your only fault is you’re not a man.”

“If I WAS a man, I’d probably be a lot further in my career by now.”

Brian rolled eyes to the ceiling, shook his head, “Ah, the classic Glass Ceiling excuse,” then directly at her, “So why didn’t you just try harder?”

Cynthia met his eyes. Because it would have meant moving on from you. Before I was absolutely certain there was no chance. But I know now. “Choice,” she faintly smiled, “How about you? Any prospects yet?”

Brian leaned cross-armed against the door. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was being blacklisted. But legally Vangard can’t say much about how or why I left, only comment on my performance.”

“Sometimes what’s NOT said makes a bigger difference. One nice word can land an interview. The word ‘satisfactory’ sends a red flag.”

Brian read Cynthia’s eyes, exhaled a long breath. “So discrimination is legal after all.”

“Vance hasn’t quite gotten around to notifying Brown Athletics that you’re gone,” her eyes flicked up for a second then away. 

Brian stared with a mix of thanks and concern. “You’re crossing the safety line. I can’t let you do that.”

“MY choice. I thought you should know.”

“You could’ve just phoned.”

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed working with you…how much I already miss you.” She stretched up, kissed his cheek. “Phone technology hasn’t come this far yet,” her smile and tone mismatched hazing eyes. “Don’t forget about me,” she turned away quickly and headed down the stairs.

Brian didn’t say good-bye. Stood in the doorway and watched her shadow shrink to gone. There was little room for sentiment in business, and he knew his name would be hushed gossip for as long as it would take to delete his security sine from Vangard’s system. After that, deadlines, demands or the next distraction. Life always went on. As if optimism could replace Cynthia and make the jab less painful. 

Brian returned to his computer and WaveLight’s boring site. He leaned back in his chair, glanced at 7 PM on his clock, grabbed his phone and dialed the Diner. “Kiki. Put Justin on.” He tapped fingers on the desk edge to bide the wait. “Justin. I’ll come by to pick you up tonight. Just…what? I thought you were off seven-thirty. Okay. Eleven. Later.”

He hung up the phone, shut down the computer, stood up and paced behind the desk. Then he pulled out his wallet, counted the bills and headed out for the evening. 

 

* * * * *

Darkness. Until the Loft door opened a rectangle of hall light with a silhouette of Brian pressed to Justin in a kiss. Brian grabbed Justin’s hand, towed his tired body in, flicked a switch and the desk lamp came on.

“Brian,” Justin stood amazed, “You bought a TREE?”

Brian scraped the door shut and locked it. “It’s one of those things you can’t throw out or give away called a gift.”

“Had to be Emmett,” Justin circled the giant.

“You’re SO perceptive.”

“Next semester we’ll be doing a lot with branches – rendering them in every medium…chalk…batik…watercolor…this is like my own personal model.”

“Then it’s yours,” Brian came from behind, “I’m sure Emmett would understand,” wrapped arms around Justin and nuzzled his neck. “You smell like…” his face crunched, “…the Diner.”

“And you taste like Woody’s,” Justin slapped both hands on Brian’s thighs, pulled away. “God, I need a shower,” Justin dragged to the bedroom. “You coming?”

“Not yet, but getting there.”

“Stepped right into THAT one,” Justin mumbled to himself, climbed the steps, glanced back and saw Brian touch a button on his answering machine.

The playback echoed: Kinney. Scott Turner returning your call. Ring me at the office tomorrow.

Justin froze. “You called Scott Turner?” 

“He owes me a favor, and we need more light in here,” Brian glanced around the room.

“We could buy a few cheap lamps.”

“And hang them on the tree?” Brian spread his arms toward the barren area. “I was thinking about track lights.”

“Sure. We could do that ourselves.”

“Between our wiring skills and vast knowledge of building code, I’m sure we could.”

“Whatever,” Justin sighed, turned away. Eighty million electricians in the City, and you pick the devil.

 

* * * * *

In the bathroom, Justin shed his clothes in a heap, started the shower, temp-tested and stepped in. He closed his eyes, let the water rain over his trance and hardly flinched when Brian moved in behind him.

“Asleep already?” Brian took the soap, leisurely ran it over Justin’s unresponsive skin.

“Too beat to move.”

So much for fucking, Brian resigned. “We’ll make it an early night.”

Justin leaned back against Brian’s chest out of the spray, eyes still closed. “I have that PIFA meeting tomorrow.”

“Worried?” Brian grabbed the shampoo, managed around Justin’s chest.

“No. Yeah. A little. But thanks to your dump on Stockwell, I don’t think I’ll have a problem,” he relaxed under hands massaging through his hair.

“Just play their game. Whatever happens, stay cool. Don’t burn any bridges.”

“Anything else, coach?”

“Rinse.”

 

* * * * *

Brian swore that Justin fell asleep before he even hit the sheets. On his back, wide awake, Brian listened to Justin’s deep breaths, eye-traced the outline of his hip to the valley of his waist and up his shoulder in the streetlight from the window. He would’ve touched his hair if he thought it wouldn’t wake him. Or damn himself with arousal doomed to self-relief.

So he closed his eyes and focused on the steady rhythm of Justin’s breaths. And counted each one. And tried not to think about all the problems money could solve.

But it didn’t work.

* * *

Brian stares wide awake into nowhere.

Song: “Burning Man (Morel’s Pink Noise Vocal Remix) by Daniel Ash


	3. Magnum Load

PIFA. Dean Armstrong’s office. D-Day with only a desktop to separate sides. Justin sat back with calm confidence in his ability, wouldn’t let Armstrong’s steady stare force his tongue. A legacy from Dad: in the art of negotiation, whoever speaks first loses. A tiny smile passed Justin’s lips when Armstrong cleared his throat and started.

“The board has reconsidered your suspension and decided…” he cleared his throat again, shifted in his chair, “…that it was not our place to challenge your political beliefs…by requiring you to apologize to Chief…uh…Mr. Stockwell.”

Justin blinked his acceptance. “I’m glad you understand that I was willing to apologize, not for WHY I acted, but how I did it.”

“That’s all well and good, however -”

“I AM being reinstated, right?” Justin leaned forward, brows low in a cut-to-the-core request.

Justin’s intensity cued Armstrong’s match. “The truth is, Mr. Taylor, after reconsidering ALL aspects involved with your suspension, the Board has decided on your immediate dismissal due to -”

“What?” Justin broke in, eyes wandering in shock and defense, “My work has been superior…I haven’t missed more than a couple days’classes…I put in a lot of extra hours…”

“Mr. Taylor, no one is questioning your enthusiasm. You’re creative, highly productive and have an extraordinary talent. But so do MANY of our applicants, so we’re very selective in choosing those who work to meet our mutual goals.”

“Your goals?” Justin leaned back, eyes narrowing.

Armstrong moved forward on bent arms, hands clasped, eyes direct. “PIFA has a respectable reputation to uphold for our students and financiers.”

“You make it sound like a business.”

“You’re right. It IS a business.”

“And Stockwell is one of your financiers?” Justin snorted off until Armstrong’s voice nailed back.

“Our benefactors don’t control our disciplinary decisions, but student behavior DOES. Especially abuse of our programs and privileges.”

“You accepted my formal letter of apology, Sir,” Justin reminded, heat building, “So exactly why am I being dismissed?”

“When you applied to Vangard – under our internship program – did it have anything to do with pursuing your relationship with Mr. Kinney?” Armstrong eyed Justin’s stunned face. “Before you say it’s none of my goddamned business, Mr. Taylor, you’re the one who brought it up to the review Board. PIFA is not a device to help you work out your personal issues, political or otherwise.”

Armstrong lifted a legal-sized envelope from a corner of his desk and held it out to Justin, who accepted in a silent daze. “This contains a detailed letter regarding our decision, and a draft for prepaid tuition minus this semester. As for your grade - given the caliber of your work – we’ll forego the failure grade and show the semester as incomplete.”

Justin felt bile rising, his eyes glazing. Fucking Stockwell and his influence. Fucking homophobic capitalist Board. His eyes shot to Armstrong, caught a momentary glimpse of the wall past his shoulder. A huge framed photo of Pittsburgh’s Golden Triangle, its rivers…and bridges. Justin swallowed his smolder, rose quietly and held out his hand. “I…respect your decision, Sir. Thank you for…having accepted me.”

Armstrong shook Justin’s hand, softened, “You can reapply next year, if you want.”

“With this?” Justin raised the envelope, voice deflated.

“We don’t run a blacklist, Mr. Taylor,” Armstrong said low, “We look for the best talent, the best attitude. You come back to us with that, and we’ll see.”

Justin nodded, swallowed, turned and walked away on legs he barely felt moving. Once outside, he leaned his head against the cool block wall to reverse the blood drain.

So much for speaking first. 

Justin stripped open the envelope, pulled and read the letter, face going from frown to pain that made him look away, shake his head. No way did he want Brian to see this. He checked the envelope for a smaller one marked REFUND DRAFT, folded that one into his pocket. Then he violently tore the letter into confetti, chucked it and the large envelope into a trash can.

 

* * * * *

Brian was at his desk like a news reporter with a deadline, pen in hand, attention swerving between his computer screen and magazine layouts. Onscreen: Brown Athletics. He looked up when he heard the Loft door open and close.

Justin drifted in slowly, small envelope in hand, took a couple breaths and came around the front of the desk.

“Hey,” he smiled his best.

Brian leaned back in his chair for some good news, “So how’d it go? Can I expect to see less of you than I already do?”

Justin’s smile died, eyes to the desk. “I suppose you’re stuck with more of me.” He opened the envelope, pulled out the draft. “But on the bright side, you didn’t tell me you paid for the whole year.”

Brian watched Justin carefully laid the draft on top of his bill stack. $16,000.00. “It’s made out to YOU,” Brian picked it up, handed it back.

“But it’s your money, and you need it.”

“It’s for your education, and I DON’T need it,” Brian dropped the draft in front of Justin.

“Then what was all that shit you gave me about a man knowing when to ask for help.”

Brian twitched in his chair, rose and rounded the desk. Justin turned to face-off and they stood in charged closeness that Brian dispelled by cupping Justin’s shoulders in his hands, gazing with penetrating warmth.

“You’re not helping me if you’re returning it because you think you failed.”

Justin stared up, his own eyes clouding. Sometimes Brian could read right into him. “I…tried…but…they were right. I don’t know if they’ll let me come back.”

Brian kissed his cheek, pulled him into a tight hug that almost took Justin to tears. “They didn’t take away anything you brought to them. All they did was hold back what they had to offer…the disciplines, mechanics, other techniques. You could probably go online and learn all that,” Brian pulled back, “If you spent less time on Goofy and Grumpy. You decide what you would need to further your art. That’s what this is for,” Brian took the draft and held it out.

Justin accepted. “Okay. But only if you remember it’s here for YOU as well.”

“Deal.” Sealed with a kiss.

“Can I borrow the car? I just want to run this to the bank before they close.”

“Keys are on the desk,” Brian stepped back. “Don’t get side-tracked. I have to meet Scott in an hour.”

That got a bristle Justin tried to hide. “What for? We can call somebody to do the work and take it out of THIS,” he smiled, waved the draft, “Save your favor for another time.”

“I already made the deal,” Brian smiled, turned and headed for the bedroom.

Justin watched him go with the swank step of a stud primed for a hot date. Lips tense, eyes narrowed, Justin searched the desk for the Vette keys and grabbed them like he was wringing somebody’s neck.

 

* * * * *

Brian left the bathroom to find Justin poised on his side in bed under a sheet, head propped on a crooked arm as he paged through a large hardcover. 

“What’re you reading?” Brian climbed across the bed and stretched in front of him.

“The History of Art,” Justin answered without looking up. “So you and Scott are hooking up?”

“Yeah,” Brian exhaled, rolled onto his back, Justin’s chilly treatment grating his sarcasm nerve. “We each plan to fuck about a dozen or so. You should come.” 

“As what? The official scorekeeper or voyeur?” Justin slammed the book shut, rolled his back to Brian and tossed the book on the floor. It landed with a loud thunk.

Brian closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “What…do you have…against Scott?”

Justin shrugged, “Aside from the fact he’s a lot like you?”

“Thank you very much for calling me an arrogant asshole.”

Justin rolled back, eyes, tone serious, “Then why hang out with him? Because he’s fun? Hot at the Clubs? Not attached in any conventional…or UNconventional way?”

Brian read the drift, rolled face to face. “Do I miss the good old days?” he watched Justin’s eyes blink slowly. “Yeah. Once in awhile, I DO.” He reached out, gently brushed a hand through Justin’s hair. “Do I regret where I’m at now?” He shook his head no with slow deliberation to make the message clear.

Justin reached up to caress Brian’s hand, gave in to his light kiss. And the next – harder, invasive, inviting. 

“Up for a round?” Brian whispered.

Justin smiled, nodded, ready to wear Brian out as much as possible.

Brian came to his knees, “I need your pillow,” waited for Justin to sit up, then stacked two pillows centered almost to the wall, one in front. He stretched over the edge of the bed, returned with a rolled towel.

Justin watched him unroll the towel and cover the oddly placed pillows. “What’re we doing?”

“On your back. Ass right here,” Brian pat the pillows, picked up a tube.

Justin maneuvered into place, folded his arms under his head and brought his knees to his chest. “You didn’t leave yourself a lot of room,” he grinned then sucked a breath as Brian squeezed the cool gel directly into him, the prep for a hard ride.

“We have all we’ll need,” he smiled, stripped open a condom packet, “Just put your feet on the wall.” 

THAT got a look of confusion. Even more when Brian straddled facing him, his back pressing Justin’s legs to the wall as he stroked Justin’s rigid dick. Brian took in Justin’s pale body, hair a soft messy tangle over arms and sheet…watched his eyes widen and mouth drop open at the feel and sight of the condom rolling down his cock. Adding lube with a lazy spread made Justin twitch. Made his own cock strain.

Justin watched Brian edge forward, pressing legs against hips as he rose to tower above him. Justin’s hands pulled free and gripped Brian’s thighs when he saw Brian reach back, felt his cock positioned. Compressed until it pinched past Brian’s ring. Brian groaned then. Or was it him? Justin watched Brian’s head roll back, eyes closed as he sank down around him, sheathing his dick in tight heat.

Brian focused on the invasion. Fullness. Pulse and twitch of Justin’s excitement inside him. And he settled lower, taking Justin as deep as possible, until his weight pressed Justin into the pillows. Then he opened his eyes, looked down at the amazement and desire, and started his moves. Slow at first…up easy, tightening hard down. And again. Then he felt his cock in Justin’s hand and exhaled a long breath, never losing sight of Justin’s gaze.

Justin breathed harder, watching Brian’s taut body gleam with sweat, move with a kind of animal grace that heightened the power within. Do I feel this good to you…he blinked. Then gasped and smiled at the touch of Brian’s finger on his hole, and he relaxed to accept.

Door located and open, Brian inserted the first of a string of anal beads small enough to limit distraction, big enough to matter. By Bead Nine, they were both on fire and driving hard, Justin thrusting up, feet braced on the wall and Brian matching so their bodies slapped together.

Brian felt Justin swell inside him, himself bloom in Justin’s hand. He altered dynamic to suck Justin dry; Justin shifted to hit Brian’s trigger. Hot breaths, motion, closed eyes. Now was for the moment. The peak. Total immersion. Total release.

Justin shouted with the intensity of exploding everywhere inside as his load pulsed into Brian and the beads were pulled free. Justin’s shockwave shot through Brian until he spasmd hard on Justin’s cock and jet his load in thick streams down Justin’s chest.

Justin’s legs fell loosely aside. Brian caved forward onto his panting partner, kissed Justin’s dry, parted lips, weakly brushed the hair away from his ear and whispered, “There are some things I’d rather keep at home.”

Eyes still closed, Justin slipped a grin, a silent, See? It didn’t fall off. 

 

* * * * *

The Adonis Bathhouse. A dingy labyrinth with piped-in seductive jazz punctuated by the grunts and groans of basal pleasures.

Brian and Scott trolled in tandem, drawing covetous stares from the involved as well as lone cruisers along a hall lined with open doorways. Brian guessed part of the attention was Scott’s personal flair – in the order of white towels or no towels, Scott’s wine-red wrap set him apart.

Brian noted, “Why the dark towel? You’ve got it…flaunt it.”

“Mystery, my friend. Reels in all kinds of ladies,” Scott grinned as they sauntered through the hall to the main pit.

“We’re among men now. When will you stop being a man without a country?”

“Man of the world,” Scott corrected, answered the question, “When I find what I want,” then moved the pleasure-business meet along, “Getting back to what YOU want…I can pick up some quality pieces,” Scott side-eyed then snubbed a Stringy Blond profiling too flat of an ass. “Installation would be a cake-walk once we run the wiring…R-14 would do…may need a junction box…” he slowed to admire a couple in heavy union.

“Bottom line,” Brian cut in, eyes on a Rugged Prospect eying his cock. Nice ass. Nice lips.

Three doors back, a voice in the hall cried, “No!” 

“Got a live one,” Scott swiveled back grinning, then his eyes went panic wide.

Brian, keyed on Hot Lips, never got a chance to look back. A sledge hit his groin with pain so intense he crumpled to his knees, cupped his dick, fought a wave of nausea and flashing stars edging total blackout, fish-bowling the POPs of two gunshots. His vision cleared to see blood on the towel over his cock. Oh god. Shoot the rest of me. Then he heard Scott, felt a vice on his arm.

“Come on. Come ON! We hafta get the fuck outta here!”

“I think I’m hit,” Brian staggered up dazed and wincing.

“That was me,” Scott yanked Brian’s arm and rushed him along.

“You slammed my fucking BALLS?”

“You might’ve been DEAD before I yelled ‘duck’. Just MOVE it!”

Brian noticed Scott naked with his towel tied on his blood-tracked right arm.

“Scott. What the fuck-”

“Let’s get our shit and GO…unless you wanna dance with the cops all night,” Scott grimaced, gripped his arm and took off for the locker room.

“I’m sure there’s a waiting list to fill my card,” Brian trailed.

Brian paced Scott in a riptide of men through “What the hell happened? Jesus! Holy shit! Go go GO” chatter as they sidestepped a prone body trickling blood.

Scott warned, “Don’t look. We never saw him.”

* * *

Adonis empties into the alley: the Corvette turns onto Liberty as squads and an ambulance converge.

Song: “Dirty Sticky Floors (Lexicon Avenue Vocal Mix) by Dave Gahan


	4. Magnum Load

After a busy night at the Diner, Justin thought the Loft bathroom without Brian seemed like the Promised Land. In briefs and a tee shirt, a towel in his lap, Justin sat on the closed toilet and savored the relief of setting his tired feet in a small tub of hot water. He leaned back against the tank, rubbed one foot over the other to gentle lapping sounds. He closed his eyes, stopped moving to just soak. To more lapping?

Justin’s eyes popped open. He leaned forward, viewed his feet in still water and cocked his head. The splashing was coming from inside the toilet. Then it quit. Justin threw the towel on the floor, swung his feet out, stood up and threw back the tank lid. Leaky stopper? Goddamned black toilet. Can’t see a thing.

A sudden splash. “Shit!” Justin dashed out the doorway, gripped the frame and listened. A large black rat hopped onto the seat rim where it sat and groomed like it owned the place. “Fuck!” Justin slammed the door. NOW what, he paced nervously, running his hand through his hair. He dashed down the steps to the kitchen, rummaged through the under-sink cabinet and considered a can of Raid before the ringing phone got his attention. Thank god, he thought, I REALLY need some help on this.

“Brian?” he answered. “Oh, hi Daph,” he silently groaned. Tell HER about it and she’d freak and hang up. “No, I’m not doing anything. No…” he looked toward the bathroom, “I’m not alone. Ben’s sorta here.” His momentary wander missed a few words. “What? No, I’m not sure if I’m coming back tonight…” Justin’s eyes slid to the bathroom again. “…but it’s a good possibility.” The scraping Loft door made him rush, “Daph, Brian’s home. I’ll call you later. Bye.”

He slammed the phone down, ran to the door. “Brian! There’s a…” he halted, grumbled low, “…rat in the Loft” when he narrow-eyed Scott, arm slung around Brian’s neck, Brian’s arm around his waist. They staggered like a couple E-high drunks past him as if he wasn’t there.

Justin grunted his displeasure, followed and shook his head when they dropped a dark towel on their struggle up the stairs. Justin snatched it up. Wet. He transferred hands and gasped at a bloody hand. The blood smear on the step. Gut churning, Justin raced to the bathroom. “jesus christ. What happened?” he tossed the towel in the wastebasket.

Brian opened a drawer, plowed through condom boxes while Scott leaned his arm into the running sink. “Scott’s been…hurt,” he finally found bandaids, started stripping them open.

“Little scrape,” Scott meshed his teeth and groaned through soaping his arm. 

Justin saw the mirror reflection of the three-by-half inch oozing raw-meat gouge on his bicep. “I’ll call a doctor.”

“No!” Brian snapped, freezing Justin in place. “Scott. What next?”

“A fifth of scotch would help,” he grit, held the stained washcloth over the gash.

Brian nodded to Justin; Justin took off for the kitchen. “I’m a little short of paramedic supplies. These’ll have to do,” Brian laid the bandages on the counter.

“Give me a hand down,” Scott turned, let Brian ease him to a seat on the floor with his back against the sink cabinet. “Just in case.”

Justin returned with clean hands and a bottle of water, “Here,” he handed it over.

“What the fuck is THIS?”

You ARE a lot like Brian. “You’re not supposed to drink alcohol when you’re bleeding,” Justin insisted. 

Scott checked Brian’s raised you-heard-the-man brow, took the water and scrutinized Justin’s porcelain hand, concerned expression. Cute, feisty. Like he used to picture Chris. He took a long drink. “Give me a minute. Then we’ll close it up.” He took another drink, eyed Brian. “Okay. Line ‘em up like stitches, but pull ‘em tight.”

“This is worse than a fucking spaghetti Western,” Brian swallowed, grabbed the bandaids, stepped over Scott’s legs and prepared to inflict pain.

“Brian, make sure you wash your hands first,” Justin turned away. He’d had enough blood for one night.

Brian watched Justin leave, didn’t notice Scott’s roving eye.

“Live-in?” Scott nodded to the door.

“No…we have an unconventional relationship.”

Ah. Open market. “Let’s get this the fuck over with.”

 

* * * * *

Ben seemed asleep but his eyes watched Michael whisper to his late caller, hang up then try to slow-motion back into sleeping position.

“You can act normal. I’m awake,” Ben reached up, flicked on a lamp. “What kind of trouble is Brian in now?” he gave his I-don’t-want-to-know-but-tell-me-anyway look.

Michael shifted to face him, propped his head on a bent arm. “That was Daphne,” he watched Ben’s eyes widen. “She says Justin’s been acting funny and she wanted to know…and I don’t get this…if YOU thought he was okay. She said Justin told her Brian’s been restless.”

“Sounds like an excuse to call his best friend,” Ben shook his head. “Do NOT get involved, Michael. You KNOW how those two are, and isn’t one black eye enough to remind you?”

“So I’m just supposed to pretend I don’t know anything while…while…Brian is…”

“Michael,” Ben set a calming hand on his shoulder, “We’ve got a full plate right now. They’ll handle whatever it is themselves.”

“Then answer one question. How many times has DAPHNE ever called us?”

Ben held Michael’s stare, blew a long breath. “Okay. We’ll…” Ben waved a hand to nudge an idea. “We’ll have dinner at the Diner tomorrow, and I’ll try to talk to Justin.”

Michael smiled at the man who ultimately never turned his back to someone’s need.

 

* * * * *

Brian looked at Scott, asleep and sprawled on the right side of his bed. He stepped down to the living room where Justin met him with a small med bottle.

“I have some penicillin left from the last time I went to the dentist,” he set the bottle in Brian’s open hand. “It should help any infection.”

“Thanks,” Brian blinked slowly, set a hand on his shoulder, kissed him above an ear, “I think you should go to Daphne’s tonight.”

“Aren’t you gonna tell me what happened?”

Brian flinched and faced away, “There was a shooting at the Baths…and not the fun kind.”

“Shit,” Justin groaned. “I KNEW Scott was trouble.”

“He didn’t do anything.”

“He’s got a bullet wound! Do you realize you witnessed a crime?”

“I didn’t witness SHIT,” Brian razed. “If we stayed around, you know as well as I do what would happen between our cop fans and fucking reporters. I can’t afford that right now, and neither can Scott,” Brian stared hard, “It’s HIS decision whether or not he wants to be out. If you want to know anything else, read about it in tomorrow’s paper, then tell ME. I told Scott he could stay here until he felt good enough to leave.”

“Why HERE?”

“Because if it hadn’t been for him, the bullet…might’ve hit me.”

Justin took that in silently then, “Was anybody else…” he stopped at Brian’s pained don’t-ask avoidance, swallowed and added, “What makes you think no one else will remember you were there?”

“It’s a fucking fact of life, Sunshine. They were running faster than WE were. I never saw what happened, and there’s nothing we could’ve done. Then OR now. So take the car and scoot,” Brian turned Justin around and lightly pushed him toward the door.

Justin spied the can of Raid on the counter, groaned, turned back. “Brian…I meant to tell you…I saw a rat.”

“What?” Brian dropped his chin, eyes wide, brows raised.

“I had it trapped in the bathroom…” Justin watched Brian’s mouth drop open, hand to the bridge of his nose. “…but…things happened so fast…”

“There’s a fucking rat in here,” Brian pressed his palm to the bridge of his nose. “And it’s too late to call maintenance.”

“I didn’t hear or see anything since you got home, and I closed the front door when I came back for the water,” Justin brushed a hand through his hair in thought. “It had plenty of time to get out.”

“I’ll cling to that hope. At least Scott’s whipped enough to stay on one side of the bed. The fuck I’m sleeping on the floor,” Brian cased the steps, stooped to check out shadows.

Justin bit a side of his lip, decided, “I’m staying here.”

“Safety in numbers?” Brian twisted a look.

“The bed’s big enough. I’ll take the middle,” Justin went to the kitchen, opened a drawer for two flashlights, returned and handed one to Brian. “You check THAT side, I’ll do the other.” The fuck you’re sleeping with Scott. Besides, I know you have more conscience than you’re letting on. And if you need someone tonight, it’ll be me.

 

* * * * *

At 2 AM, Brian in his silk robe, sat at his computer to drown his mind in WaveLight. Justin, white tee shirt and dark briefs, soon joined him. Didn’t say anything. Just stood behind him, slid his arms down Brian’s chest and locked his hands there, rested his cheek against Brian’s ear and watched the screen.

Brian touched Justin’s arm, looked up to meet a serious are-you-okay expression, ran his hand to the back of Justin’s neck and drew him into a kiss. Then he backed off with a tired half-smile: yeah, I’m okay. “Now go back to bed.”

“Think I’ll just paint for awhile.”

Brian watched Justin filter into the shadows near the window where he’d moved his easel. A clip-on lit the canvas, reflected candle-like on Justin’s profile and made him seem too young, almost forbidden. We’ll catch up later. When things settle down.

 

* * * * *

Next morning, Brian strolled into the Diner to find Michael sitting at the counter reading a newspaper and flanked by Vic and Emmett craning for a look. Debbie manned the opposite side, her own grim face observing theirs.

Brian set a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Aren’t we a cheery breakfast net,” then to Debbie, “Two Super Sunrisers to go, extra sausage on the side.”

“Have you heard the news?” Vic looked up, “There was a shooting at Adonis last night.”

“Is there no safe place to practice our perversions anymore,” Brian rolled his eyes. “Did you get my order?”

Debbie snapped, “I would think YOU of all people would be interested, considering all the time you spend there.”

Michael shared facts. “The cops say it was a drug deal that went sour, and a twenty-year-old kid got shot. He’s in a coma at Presby. They got a few suspects, but they don’t know if they can hold any of them.”

Debbie chimed in, “Yeah. A lunatic with a gun shoots a kid and…what’d they estimate?” she looked at Vic, he opened his mouth, she answered, “Maybe twenty there and nobody saw or heard anything. You’d think with all those balls around, ONE guy would’ve come forward.”

“And which one would THAT be?” Brian smiled, “The one whose wife and kids don’t know he’s there? Or the one whose lover thinks he’s home knitting? Scrambled. Easy. I’m in a hurry.”

Emmett sat in quiet, serious thought. “It could have been Teddy,” livened, “Oh, I know he’s safe in rehab…but…” he drifted back to silence.

“It could have been ANY of us,” Michael handed the paper to Vic. 

Brian just wanted out of there. “You’re absolutely right, Mikey. Any one of us would pull a shady drug deal,” he took in Michael’s and Debbie’s matching glares. “Now can I get my order?”

Debbie whipped out her checks and pencil, scribbled, “Whether he asked for it or not, there’s a psycho loose in the community and I’d like to think SOMEBODY would care,” she walked away.

Vic handed the paper to Emmett. “Despite the new mayor, I’m sure the police will do their standard job.”

“Like the Stockwell investigation?” Michael grimaced, “They took Hunter’s statement about how he collected the evidence on Rikert, I guess to show that Rikert had sex with a LOT of boys and didn’t kill any of them.”

Done reading, Emmett gave the paper to Brian, stood up. “As much as I’m enjoying this stimulating talk? I have a…” he glanced at Brian, “…some things to do.”

“Which means I do, too,” Vic slid off his stool and followed Emmett.

Brian watched them go, sat beside Michael, leaned an elbow on the counter and his head against his raised hand. “So how goes the Hunter saga?”

Before Michael could answer, Debbie appeared, reached down, pulled up a stack of papers, slapped them on the counter.

“A little light reading?” Brian quirked a brow, watched her divide the stack into two uneven piles.

“This…” she tapped the thin stack, “…is a list of all the agencies and support on OUR side, and THIS…” her voice sank as she touched the fat stack, “…is HER side. What do YOU think?”

Brian shrugged, “I think that’s a shitload of go-betweens who probably care more about their causes and jobs than you, her OR Hunter. So what’s the shortest distance between two points?” He held Debbie’s stare until her eyes wandered undecided over the papers.

At the cash register, Emmett handed his credit card to a Punk Waiter and kept low, “Honey? Could you put all our checks on this? Brian’s, too?” 

“Yeah. I’ll get ‘em from Deb,” he hiked away.

Emmett took in Vic’s steady, flat stare. “I know. You’re going to tell me that Brian will be royally pissed that I picked up his check, but the truth is? I asked him to help Teddy…which he DID,” Em glanced off, “…even though it didn’t work out,” then firmer, “And I can’t help thinking that it could be part of the reason why…” Emmett looked off then back with a fluttery hand, “If there’s anything I can do…even some small little unimportant thing, it’s my way of showing how much I appreciated what he did.”

Vic held his stare a couple more seconds. “I was going to say, I wish you’d have told me you were buying earlier. I’d have ordered the Super Sunriser instead of the Bagel a’la carte,” followed by a don’t-sweat-it-I’m-not-judging Vic smile. 

 

* * * * *

Scott awoke in a day-lit smoky haze. His right arm hurt like hell. A soft voice echoed in his head and he opened his eyes to the blurry image of a blond in baggy sweats.

“Scott? Scott. I have to change this. Tell me if I’m hurting you too much,” Justin sat on the bed ledge, lifted Scott’s elbow, “Keep your arm bent.” He gulped when Scott groaned, stripped cellophane tape off the bloodstained tee and carefully unwrapped it.

Scott watched Justin’s hands at delicate work, looked around the empty room, “Kinney can’t take a little blood?”

Justin tensed at Scott’s hiss, the sight of blood-crusted bandaids. “Brian went to pick up breakfast. We should change the rest, but I don’t wanna start you bleeding again.”

“You’re pretty good at this,” he cringed when Justin moved to rewrap with a cut piece of clean tee shirt.

“Past experience,” Justin lost himself in somber recollection.

Scott studied Justin’s hands. Face. Hair. A vague ghost of a dancer at Babylon somebody called Kinney’s ex. Had to be a class fuck. But he didn’t seem interested in a hot hunk like himself. Maybe a little ice-breaking hands-on. “If I don’t piss soon, it’ll start leaking out of the cut. Give me a little help here.”

Scott gripped Justin’s shoulders, felt tight arms surround his waist. Nice, strong but not hard. He slid his hand to Justin’s waist as they walked. Good angle, smooth slim line. “What was your name again?”

Justin recalled the black memory of those words like some distant joke that he could smile about, knowing how things were now. “Justin,” he looked up then away.

Scott nodded down and wondered when he’d last seen a smile like that. Then he felt Justin stop, saw his eyes case the bathroom. Don’t quit now, not when we’re just getting familiar. “What?”

“I have to tell you…I think there’s a rat in here somewhere. It got in through the toilet and we didn’t find it.”

THAT derailed the train. “It could’ve...” An idea clicked. Scott darted eyes to his feet and piped, “That it?”

“Where?” Justin gripped hard enough to break a rib, hardly felt Scott’s hand slide to his ass.

“Sorry,” Scott lightly pat. Very nice. Great reaction, too – into the hero type. “Must’ve been my imagination.” Scott winced in pain, Justin relaxed, then Scott dropped his left arm to grab his right and sneaked a cock-check on the pass between their bodies.

Feeling the uninvited graze, dawn broke and Justin backed off with a hollow, “You’ll be okay from here.” Then he stormed away disgusted. I can’t believe I fell for his shit. Can’t believe it. If it wasn’t for him saving Brian...Fucker.

* * *

Justin walks out; Scott watches

Song: “Tear Off Your Own Head (It’s a Doll Revolution)” by Elvis Costello


	5. Magnum Load

With daylight and determination to ignore Scott, Justin sat at his easel, added the finishing touches to his work. The opening bedroom door panel drew his reflex look. Except for his wrapped bicep, Scott stood naked in a Michelangelo stance that made Justin’s eyes widen, mouth drop before he could jolt back to his canvas. A jezebel cock response made him shift on his stool. No doubt Scott had a lot to offer.

“A painter,” Scott smiled wide, noted the interest. “You could do ME…if you think you’re that good.”

“I only do Brian,” Justin said to the canvas. Maybe a guy or so in the back room, but I’m not encouraging this wiseguy. “You can ask HIM if I’m that good.”

Egged by the quick read on subtext, Scott stepped down to close in but was foiled by the opening Loft door and Justin’s scamper to answer.

Justin flung his arms around Brian’s neck and placed a big, demonstrative kiss that Brian returned with a one-armed hug.

“I was only gone a couple hours,” Brian kissed Justin’s cheek then saw Scott approaching with his sultry come-on pace and a semi. “Good to see you’re feeling up to par.”

“That’s not all he’s feeling up,” Justin whispered, eyes narrowed.

Amused Brian discreetly nuzzled his ear. “Oh? He’s usually not that subtle. He must…” his darkening eyes looked up – really like you. Then louder, eyes perusing Scott’s show, “I see you’re making yourself comfortable.” He handed Justin one of two bags. “Go set this up. Just two. I’m not that hungry.”

Scott met Brian as Justin took off for the kitchen. “Had to soak some blood spots out of my clothes and I didn’t want to assume you’d loan me any of yours.”

“How considerate,” Brian grinned with a sarcastic eye-blink. “Come on. I have some sweats that’ll do.” He led Scott to the bedroom and up the steps, glanced back to see Scott glancing at Justin who was leaning on the counter, eating and reading the paper.

Brian regained attention by rattling the bag. “Gauze and tape for later.”

“He’s got good hands,” Scott resumed follow. “I could use an extra arm for the lighting job…show him a few wiring tricks.”

I’ll bet you could. Brian set the bag on the bed, headed for his closet. “We’ll wait until you’re back to two arms.”

Scott watched Brian pick through hangered items. “Sweet ass, too. He know how to use it?”

Casual face and tone, Brian abruptly turned and almost gut-punched Scott with a roll of sweats. “Do you need help with these?” 

Scott took the clothing, grinned, “Oh. Not talking. Thought you had an unconventional setup.” Brian’s opaque calm and counter actions intrigued him.

Brian yanked open a sock drawer, “We don’t censor each other’s programs,” snatched a pair and held them out.

Scott stared straight into Brian’s eyes. “You know I can sense interest as well as YOU can, and I caught a good whiff earlier. Mind if I check it out?”

Troubling revelation. Brian disguised with a smile, “It’s Justin’s call.” He looked at Justin through the doorway, challenged Scott’s motive, “He looks a lot like Chris, doesn’t he?”

Scott’s smile flattened. “A little.” He grabbed the socks.

Justin rinsed his plate and set it in the drain basket, turned when he heard Scott and Brian sit at the counter. “You might want to nuke that,” Justin eyed Scott then the filled plate.

Scott focused on grabbing the paper and poring over the Adonis article.

“Don’t worry,” Justin dried his hands, “Your names aren’t in it.”

Scott shot a look at Justin, side-eyed Brian who gave Justin a was-that-necessary brow rise. 

“You boys share everything?” Scott pegged Brian.

“If it doesn’t involve lying or non-consensus,” Brian flipped, sneaked another evil eye at Justin, who mouthed a tiny sorry.

Justin tried redemption. “I won’t say anything,” then, “At least a lot more people weren’t hurt.”

“A twenty-two magnum D only holds two shots,” Scott shoved the paper aside, picked up his plate and walked it around the counter. He didn’t see Justin’s eyes dart to Brian’s or Brian’s repeat evil eye return. “A standard round is decent at close range, but a magnum load…” Scott stalled in a deja-vu moment.

Justin thought his one-handed nuke prep was the problem. “Let me help,” he took the plate from Scott’s hand. That snapped Scott back.

“Yeah…it’s the extra gunpowder that drives the shot harder.” 

“Scott knows a little about guns,” Brian casually added.

Justin cued the microwave, crabbed past Scott. “Brian? Can I borrow the car? I have to deliver that painting, and I have a few things to pick up at the Mall.”

“The keys are on the desk. Take your time. If we need it, Scott’s truck is parked down the block.”

“Could you give me a hand?”

Unusual request. “Sure,” Brian nodded, stood up and followed Justin to his painting.

 

* * * * *

Outside as they maneuvered the painting into the cramped back seat, Justin leaned close.

“Brian. There’s nothing about the gun in the paper.”

“What happened to ‘I won’t say anything’.”

“But unless the shooter had his hand behind his back, Scott had to have seen -”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Brian said low, eyes checking for passing bodies, “He pushed me before I heard the shots.”

“There’s a man in a coma, and a criminal loose because -”

“Justin,” Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. Taylor-on-a-soapbox is all I need. “It’s up to Scott, and I don’t want to hear anymore.”

“Brian, that makes us accessories.”

“It makes us two men who are GUESSING what somebody else MIGHT have seen. If we come forward and Scott refuses - ”

“He has a bullet wound.”

“Because…of me,” Brian leaned heavily on an arm on the front seat. “Now are there any last words you want to add?”

Justin looked at Brian’s downcast face, “You might want to soak the bandages with some watered-down peroxide. And use lube to get them off. He should have a new dressing put on.”

Brian looked over his shoulder with a faint smile that turned serious. “I’ve known Scott for awhile, now. One percent of the time, he slips up and does a good deed. But the other ninety-nine, Scott is for Scott. Remember that.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Brian exhaled, swiveled and sat on the passenger seat, arms crossed and legs stretched. “He’s seriously cruising you,” he watched Justin’s wide eyes blink like ticking seconds. “Don’t play any games with him.”

“I’m NOT,” Justin flared, “What? Do you want me to go back to Daphne’s till he leaves?”

“That’s up to YOU.”

“Everything’s always fucking up to me,” Justin shook his head.

“When it involves you, yes.” Brian tensed his lips, stood up and grabbed Justin’s shoulders, “I’m not accusing you of anything. I just thought you should know that there’s a difference between a little backroom fun and what Scott wants, so if you plan on persuading him to come forward…keep in mind how it looks to HIM…” Brian’s jaw flinched, “…unless that’s what YOU want, too.”

Justin watched Brian’s eyes scan his own with rapid moves. “I understand,” he braced his hands on Brian’s waist and stood on his toes to plant a soft kiss. “Do YOU?”

 

* * * * *

Daphne cracked her door open, saw Justin balancing a wrapped painting on the tops of his shoes. Hand on a hip, brows up and eyes stabbing a Well? Remember me? she stayed silent.

“I know,” Justin dropped his chin, eyes up, “I’m a lousy friend.”

“I won’t argue that.”

“Can I come in anyway?”

She softened and opened the door. “You still have a key, you know.”

“I didn’t want to just walk in on you in case…”

“I’d be in my room. That’s no excuse,” she turned back inside, flopped into a chair, leg crossed and bunny slipper swishing air as she watched him lean his work against the wall. “You could’ve called, you know. The last thing I heard was this frantic ‘Brian’s home. Bye’ and the click about broke my eardrum.”

Justin sat on the futon, fidgeted, “Sorry. There was a good reason…” he thought a moment, decided to leave the toilet part out. “A rat got into the Loft -”

“No SHIT!” she leaned forward wide-eyed, cringed, “Eewww. Did you get it?”

“We think it got out when Brian and…Brian came in,” his eyes did a nervous flick. “I just wanted to leave this painting. Liz’s boyfriend…you know Hick?…he’s coming to pick it up about seven tonight.”

Daphne leaned forward, eyes briefly on his clenching hands. “Brian hasn’t…like…found a job yet, hunh?”

Trading one stress for the lesser, Justin cleared his throat, shook his head. “It’s not that he’s not trying. It’s just…Ryder doesn’t exist anymore, and Vangard isn’t helping him.”

Daphne shook her head. “He’s too good. Someone will get lucky and hire him,” she nodded, sure of it. “So when are you going back to school?”

Justin’s smile faded. “PIFA kicked me out.”

“Fuck!” Daphne’s mouth dropped open. “Why?”

“Fucking up at Vangard,” he quick-glanced. “But they refunded a year’s tuition. Brian won’t take it back.” He watched Daphne’s smile rise, ever Brian’s fan. “We talked about it…and…he was right. Doing all this freelance work isn’t furthering my career. Being creative is okay…but now I have a real purpose for it. Brian’s got his eye on this small agency,” Justin’s voice strengthened, “And I have an idea for a presentation to give him an edge, so he won’t need fucking Vangard.”

“That is so COOL!” Daphne lit.

Justin checked his watch. “I have to get over to the Mall to pick up some equipment. Wanna come? I’ve got the Vette.”

Daphne wrinkled her nose, shook a no. “I got my PHONE bill yesterday,” then a questioning gaze, “Are you gonna be a jerk and tell me you don’t know if you’re coming back tonight?”

Justin’s smile drooped. “I’ve got a lot of work lined up. Maybe you should just plan on me NOT being here for a while. Okay with you?”

Daphne stood up and accepted his dark change with “Okay. But I’m not taking any more of your money for rent. And CALL, you freak,” she lightly slapped his arm. “That’s what best friends are for. Being there even when you’re a jerk. Okay?”

Justin nodded, moved close and hugged her a little too long. 

She held her head against his, sensing something else wrong. “You know…if you want to hang around for awhile…”

Justin backed away with a timid smile. “I’m okay. Really.”

Daphne nodded and saw him to the door. He’d just told her that he didn’t want to talk about it.

 

* * * * *

Brian and Scott stood on the sunny roof of the Loft building and gazed down at a back street lined with smaller complexes.

“The ever-discreet Valley Pest Control,” Scott pointed at a white van with a small red stamp-out insignia, parked across the street. “There’s your problem.”

“Yeah. He’s over THERE, not here.”

“But he’s herding varmints your way,” Scott walked to a curved white plastic pipe growing from the roof, “Septic vent,” he clarified, bent down and reached up into the opening. “Probably got in through here. Piece of quarter inch mesh’d solve that,” Scott straightened.

“I’ll share your insight with maintenance,” Brian turned and headed back to the door. “With the fees they charge, let THEM buy...whatever.”

“So did you find a job yet?”

Brian froze mid-reach for the doorknob, faced Scott, “Slow news day in the suburbs?”

“While you were gone, I had to entertain myself -”

“You’ve still got one good hand.”

“Can it, Kinney. I saw a stack of bills and applications on your desk. What gives?”

Okay. Seriously. “Political differences, lousy economy and the word satisfactory,” Brian yanked the door open. “If nothing else, there’s always my stock portfolio.”

“It’s a bear market,” Scott followed Brian inside, down the stairs.

“Your deathbed manner is for shit, Scott. Either stab me again or hire me.”

Waiting for Brian to unlock his door, Scott gripped his aching arm, looked at it and thought a moment. “I might be able to help you out.”

Brian paused in thought, shook a no. “I’ve got something in the works. The timing isn’t right yet, but I should know in a couple of months.” He stopped at his desk, lifted the day’s mail. His brows knit over a letter he quickly opened and read.

“You got any aspirin?” Scott rubbed his arm.

“Bathroom drawer. And bring me the bottle,” Brian tossed the letter on the desk, faced Scott’s questioning look. “It’s a hearing notice. Fucking Vangard is contesting my unemployment.” Brian ran his hands over his face in disbelief.

Scott moved to the computer and one-hand-pecked a few keys. “Read this over and if you’re interested, we’ll talk,” he pointed and left for the bathroom.

Brian rounded the desk, sat down, scrolled through pages of print. His eyes widened over one page. He scrolled back and read it again just to be sure. 

 

* * * * *

Justin drove along Liberty as if on autopilot, mind busy. The brief blast of a siren made him glance at his rear view mirror. Ambulance? Shit. Patrol car. Probably signaling to pass. 

Justin swung the Vette to the curb, checked his mirror and slapped the steering wheel. Goddamn cops pulled up behind him. He saw one approaching uniformed officer in his side view mirror, rolled down his window and gazed up with a hard, “What?” – and a sizzle charge when he recognized the Officer who had flung his license on the ground not long ago.

“See your license,” Officer was cold business, eyes noting the computer equipment in the back seat.

Justin narrow-eyed him, cleared his throat and dug for his wallet, pulled his license and held it out. “You’ve seen it before,” he griped, had the license pulled from his hand.

“Routine check.”

“Based on Stockwell’s hit-list?”

The Officer glared, “Owner’s registration.”

Justin speared a look, leaned over.

The cop’s stern, “Hold it there,” froze him.

“I’m just checking the glove compartment.”

“Take it slow.”

Justin rummaged through condoms, tissue – nothing even close to a piece of paper. Anxious, he tried the visors. Slowly. Only a pen and blank paper. “I don’t have it,” he shook his head. “It’s my partner’s car, and if you’ll let me call him, he can clear this all up,” he reached for his pocket.

“Keep your hands in sight and step out of the car,” the Officer backed off.

“For WHAT? I didn’t do anything,” Justin threw the door open, slid out. Miffed by gawkers dawdling past, he side-mouthed “Asshole,” louder than planned.

* * *

The Officer smiles at Justin; Brian rereads the hearing notice.

Song: “Mediocre Bad Guys” by Jack Johnson


	6. Magnum Load

At Mel and Linz’s, Mel in a maternity top and sweat pants listened to Linz in her chic work attire as Linz icily waved a stack of legal papers.

“I thought you went part-time to lighten up your load.”

“We never said anything about bringing work HOME. And I told you I can handle it.”

The doorbell rang. Linz slapped the papers on Mel’s desk. “Maybe you can handle the door, too. I’m going to check on Gus,” she turned and stomped up the stairs.

Mel peeked through the door curtain, tensed her jaw and opened the door. “Brian. Nice of you to call before you came.”

“Trouble on the Isle of Lesbos?” he stepped inside, shut the door.

“So how’s JOB hunting?” she speared back with a sharp smile.

“Point taken,” Brian faked a stab wound; Mel relaxed to a mere on guard.

“If you came to see Gus, he’s upstairs with Linz.”

“Actually, I came to see YOU.”

Mel’s brows furrowed. “What for?” she motioned him to the couch then crossed her arms over her chest and kept the look-down-on-you power stand.

Keep your power. I’m not here to play, Brian sat down. “I need a partnership contract.”

“For what? S Corp? Company deal?” she shook her head.

Linz stopped on the top step. Her smile widened on hearing Brian, but business talk halted her descent.

“The same type of agreement you and Linz have.”

“For whom?”

“I want this kept confidential,” Brian shifted uncomfortably, “Justin and me.”

“Uh...what?” Mel eased into a chair, mouth open.

Linz prayer-folded her hands to her mouth to hold an ecstatic shout.

Brian leaned forward, hands clasped over his knees. “I might be starting a new job next week and I need it to cover Justin under the health plan.”

Mel’s eyes narrowed and she leaned back. “Health plan. Sounds like you reeeeally thought this out,” she leaned forward perturbed. “Is this a joke? Do you have any idea what you’re asking? It’s the closest thing there is to a MARRIAGE contract!”

“Can we not use that word,” Brian flinched.

Linz’s face hardened at Mel’s tone and she forced herself to sit on a step and silently tap a foot rather than barrel into the conversation.

Brian refused to defend or explain. “Will you do it or not?”

“It would make you equal partners in all you own, meaning if something should happen to one of you, the other has full legal right to the estate.”

“I understand that.”

“Do you also understand that there’s full legal responsibility?” Mel lasered Brian’s eyes. “Have you discussed this with Justin?”

“Not yet.”

“Well you’d better do that first. If he signs that contract and something happens to YOU, he’s a nineteen-year-old kid starting life a hundred thousand dollars in debt. That would be one fucking gem of a wedding present.”

Another flinch. Then Brian straightened, “Half of it’s paid down.” 

“Oh,” Mel flipped a hand, “THAT news hasn’t gotten around yet.”

“The chance of my early demise is a lot less than the chance that he might need a first-rate doctor, not some student intern,” then quickly added, “Down the road.”

Caught Mel’s attention. “Is something wrong with Justin?”

“Not that I know,” Brian lazed back with a smile. “But the Diner only carries liability, and he works with his hands all day. If you were an artist what would your hands be worth to YOU?”

“Let me think about it,” Mel fingered her chin, kept a steady eye on Brian.

Linz bolted up, hiked downstairs. “Brian!”

“Linz!” Brian mimicked, stood up, “How’s Gus?”

“He’s up in the playroom. Why don’t you…go up and say hello?”

“Just watch your mouth,” Mel added. “He’s getting to be like a parrot.”

“How will you know if he got it from me or you?” Brian arched a brow at Mel’s sneer and strolled to the stairs.

Linz held her smile until Brian was out of sight then turned a frown on Mel, kept her voice low, “How could you refuse to do it? All he asked for-”

“You heard that? I will NOT be a party to insurance fraud,” Mel jabbed a finger at Linz, softened, “And I take our contract too seriously to turn it into some frivolous Kinney whim.”

“I don’t think it’s a whim.”

Mel stared back waiting for a hint of doubt, but Linz’s eyes stayed firm.

 

* * * * *

Upstairs, Brian stretched on his side on the floor, alongside the bright-eyed boy who was kneeling and handing him toy cars.

“DIS one,” Gus handed over a car.

Brian accepted it with a smile, watched the light play off the plastic as he moved his hand. “Corvette. You have good taste.”

“Go-BET!”

“You know, Sonny Boy?” he watched the toddler who was engrossed with deciding on the next show-and-tell. “They say that life is a circle. If you’re lucky, you’ll break out of it and not end up like me,” he stared off darkly, “Because…for all I did to break out…I’m still about to become my FUCKing Dad.”

“Fuck!”

Brian snapped up, glanced at the empty doorway, quickly grabbed a “Truck. See this? TRUCK.”

“TUCK!” Gus beamed.

“Close enough. Remember that,” Brian handed the truck to Gus. Then his cell phone rang.

 

* * * * *

Mel followed Linz up the stairs, whispered, “Confidential. Don’t mention anything.”

“Thanks for…you know,” Linz smiled at the top of the stairs, walked into the playroom and almost bumped into Brian.

He grabbed her shoulders and gently moved her aside. “I have to run. Something came up,” and he skirted past Mel without a word.

“Doesn’t it always,” Mel snarked low.

“I wonder what THAT was about,” Linz called from her crouch beside Gus, smiled at the baby, “Did you have fun with your Daddy?”

“Du-tin in…in…ail,” Gus looked up with a serious frown.

“Oh honey,” Linz chuckled. “No. Yale would’ve been nice, but Justin’s in PIFA.”

“Go-BET,” Gus proudly displayed the Corvette to his smiling Moms. And since THAT went over so well… “Fuck!”

Linz’s smile froze. Mel turned away with a low, “That goddamned Brian.”

 

* * * * *

Leaving the Police Station, Justin looked back at Brian and gruffed, “Conventional as it seems, MOST people keep the owner’s card in the glove compartment.”

“I’ll remind Mikey. We UNconventional types keep a copy in our wallets,” Brian hung an arm on Justin’s shoulder, saw Justin eye cops ahead and leaned close. “Unless you want to become the next Bird Man of Alcatraz, don’t stick your tongue out unless I’m in front of it.”

Justin side-glanced with a smile, slapped Brian’s arm and reflected on the many times they somehow kept each other grounded.

Brian stopped at Scott’s truck, caught Justin flexing his right hand. “We can leave the car until later,”

“I can drive,” Justin retorted, “It’s stress from Stockwell’s Ambush Squad out to get us. Who the fuck ever heard of detaining somebody for an owner’s card.”

Brian handed Justin the Vette key. “You don’t call a nineteen-year-old waiter in somebody else’s thirty thousand dollar car loaded with new computers suspicious?”

“But I wasn’t doing anything WRONG.”

Brian scanned for an all clear then spoke low. “All we have to do is LOOK wrong...be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We can’t give them that.”

Justin did an emphatic nod. More insight into Brian’s side of the bathhouse deal.

 

* * * * *

Outside the Loft building, Justin stacked four boxes on the sidewalk beside the parked Vette, watched Brian swing out of the truck behind it.

“Can you grab those?” Justin motioned with a nod, picked up his two.

“What IS all this?” Brian grunted as he lifted the other two boxes.

“I’m doing what you said,” Justin set his boxes down and opened the door, “Furthering my art.” He lifted his two, backed the door open and held it for Brian. “This way we can both work without time share.”

“From the looks of it,” Brian spotted the Pentium Four logo, “I’ll be stealing time on YOUR system.” He set his load in front of the elevator, raised the gate, leg-shoved the boxes in.

“Graphics programs use a lot of power,” Justin joined Brian, set his boxes on top. “It’ll take some time to learn, but I’ve got a project that’s worth it.”

Brian circled his arms around Justin. “What’s that old saying…nothing worthwhile ever comes easy?”

Tell me about it, Justin leaned his head back with raised brows, blinked at Brian, got a brief kiss. 

 

* * * * *

After checking on Scott, Brian stepped down from the bedroom to the front window where Justin was deciding how to set up his system. “He’s out of it.” Brian glanced at a digital clock. Four PM. “I have to go see a man about a job.”

“Brian,” Justin gleamed. Faded at Brian’s flat look.

“It’s not a sure thing, but it’s worth checking out. Will you be okay for awhile?” Brian side-shot the bedroom.

“I have to be at work soon anyway,” Justin shrugged, got Brian’s nod. He expected Brian to don some Prada, but Brian headed for the door as was. “You’re going like THAT?”

Brian surveyed his jeans and dark tee shirt, “I don’t want to overdress for this one. I’ll let you know how it goes,” he cast a dim smile and hurried out.

Justin listened to the closing door. Something wasn’t right. He glanced at his watch, at the bedroom, breathed out a decision that Scott’s presence wouldn’t keep him from a shower and fresh clothes.

Justin crept to his drawer, looked at Scott’s closed eyes, bare torso and stretched right arm. He leaned closer to check the arm for signs of leakage or swelling, startled when Scott moved.

“If you REALLY want to help me out-”

“I could tell you how to get to the Baths from here,” Justin coolly finished, opened a drawer, fished for a shirt.

“Now is that any way to thank me for Brian’s interview?”

“You…” Justin halted with a glow that quickly died. “I don’t whore myself out as gratitude,” he grumbled, went into the bathroom.

Scott followed, leaned his naked body with his right arm in the doorframe so Justin couldn’t slam the door. “Jobs are hard to come by. It’s a buyers’ market and most do background checks. Why do you think he’s having such a hard time getting notice?”

“Because he’s too good for them,” Justin got in Scott’s face before realizing how close.

“Because he’s a middle-aged high-priced white-collar with a sordid past and no references,” Scott straight-faced.

“I can’t believe you’re friends,” Justin hissed.

“I don’t whitewash with him,” Scott countered, “Did he tell you Vangard’s contesting his unemployment?”

Justin’s eyes widened. “No.”

“I thought you boys shared everything. Sorry I blew that,” Scott looked off with mock sincerity. “He’ll lose, and he knows it. Next step is bankruptcy, and you know what THAT does to a credit record,” he watched Justin’s eyes narrow. “If you don’t believe me, the hearing notice is beside a stack of applications on the desk.”

“He’s got a deal lined up,” Justin raised his chin.

“It’s not firm and he’s out of time. I can fix him up with a phone call.”

“Then DO it.”

“Maybe after a shower. You COULD let me wash your back…” Scott cocked a brow.

Justin swallowed, remembered Brian’s warning and decided not to pull a Kip. He stood firm, eyes steady. “Do what you want, Scott. I’m not part of your deal. If you want to know the truth, yeah. I know a great body when I see one, but I like a lot more connected to it. If you can’t help him as a friend, or tell the cops what you saw at Adonis, as far as I’m concerned all you are is…” Justin glanced at his cock, his face “…a big dick.” He flung his shirt on the sink, “Now move aside. I’m already late for work.”

Scott blocked him with an outstretched left arm and met defiant eyes. “I would’ve made the call anyway.”

Justin studied Scott’s face, saw his arm drop to let him pass and cooled down. “Thanks,” he said low and walked out, not sure what just happened.

Scott leaned back on the doorframe, watched Justin turn from view. He’d just been ego-bashed, snubbed and left with a hard cock getting hotter. Over an intriguing bold young man who painted, knew a great body when he saw one, and was about to be spending some long nights alone.

Scott reached down and picked up the bedside cordless.

 

* * * * *

Brian read the Turner Lumber Office sign on the mobile home door, checked the number 1600 then walked into Dave Turner’s office. He froze open-mouthed before he even noticed Dave at the desk. Hanging on the wall behind him was Justin’s abstract twat painting.

“Mr. Kinney. Dave Turner, Scotty’s brother? Have a seat.” 

Brian pulled up a chair, scouted Dave – a darker version of Scott, paunchier with a more passive manner. Obviously the Kid who tagged along behind his more aggressive older brother. Then he eyed Justin’s work again. 

Dave glanced over a shoulder and back with a proud grin. “Like that? The boys pitched in and got it for my birthday. They wanted to add some class to my office, and thought it said a lot about me. Truth is…” he leaned forward and spoke low, “…I don’t understand it. Maybe YOU do. I mean,” Dave lifted Brian’s faxed application and quirked a brow, “You were in advertising.”

Brian cocked his head, “I honestly can’t tell you.” But I think I’m getting the picture.

Dave turned serious. “Scotty had some good words to say, but this is no glitz job. Think you can handle it?”

“I applied for the job, not the glitz. And, yeah, I’d done this kind of work before.” Back in my ignorant youth. “It kept me in beer money and out of the house.”

“You’ll fit right in,” Dave smiled, reached a hand across his desk.

Sounds like a swell bunch. Brian shook that hand firmly. “I take it I’m hired?”

“There’s a little matter of a physical and some paperwork, but I don’t think you’ll have a problem. Let’s take a walk over to the main building so you can get a look at our operation.”

Brian nodded, stood up and followed Dave out to…

 

* * * * *

…the center of Hell. Brian panned the huge warehouse with its fifteen giant overhead doors, racks of lumber, forklifts and tractors. And a dozen workmen in filthy, sweat-marked jeans and shirts. Blue collar at its finest. 

Dave shouted over the din of beeps, whirs and clacks of lumber being piled. “We’re non-union. You have to buy your own shoes, gloves and earplugs. Come on,” Dave waved him over to a door below a stairway

Brian’s gaze followed the stairs up to a catwalk in front of two open dark doorways and windows. “What’s up there?”

“Those?” Dave pointed up, “They used to be my offices, but the noise and dirt got to be too much. Just a couple empty rooms.”

Brian nodded. Noise and dirt. Lovely. He trailed Dave into a large room with two long tables decked in used cups, paper plates and plastic ware. A couple bombed-out couches were strewn with cycle and girlie mags.

Dave closed the door, muffling the noise. “This is the break room. Full kitchen,” Dave waved to a refrigerator, stove and sink in matching grime. “The men cook in, but once in awhile they barbecue out back unless the flies get too bad.”

Brian made a mental note. Bring lunch. “What about the work?”

“Uh…soon as we make the formal offer, you can meet the Foreman, and he’ll fill you in,” Dave headed back to the door.

Brian hesitated before following. You don’t know what goes on, do you? At least now I get the painting.

* * *

Brian follows Dave out, takes a last look at the dock and its surreal rhythm.

Song: “Music Play (Satoshi Tomiie)” by DJ Nukem


	7. Magnum Load

At the Diner, Justin scanned three occupied tables, two loners at the counter then stepped up to Debbie refilling the coffee maker.

“Deb? It’s slow tonight. Mind if I take off early?”

Debbie turned with a smile that faded when she saw his face. “What’s wrong, Sunshine?” she leaned on the counter, ruffled when he glanced away. “Is Brian on the downslide again?”

“No,” Justin stared hard. “He had another job interview, and I want to be home…when he gets back.” Justin looked down. Debbie’s fingertips lifted his chin.

“Honey, you can’t be his keeper.”

Before Justin could respond, Ben and Michael strolled in, drawing Debbie’s attention.

“Hi, Mom, Justin,” Michael smiled.

“Hey, Sweetheart. What brings YOU two in tonight?”

Michael discreetly nudged Ben’s leg with his fist and Ben had to think quick.

“Oh…uh…we came to see what the Special is,” he looked at Justin, “Why don’t you…show us to your station and fill us in,” with that big superhero grin.

Justin looked at Debbie, she raised her brows, “You heard the customer.”

Justin’s lips thinned at her refusal to let him go but he recovered with a put-on smile. “Sure,” he looked at Michael, “This way.”

Debbie grabbed Ben’s sleeve, whispered, “He’s stuck in Brian’s dumps. Tell him to spend more time with his friends.”

Ben nodded, turned away with a blown breath. The Novotny interference-double-play caught him again. He sat at the table across from Michael with Justin standing poised and ready with his checkbook.

Michael shot Ben a look, slid from his seat. “Hey Justin? Keep him company for a minute. I have to talk to my Mom about…something,” he pressed a hand on Justin’s shoulder to seat him then he fired away, leaving Justin wondering.

Ben calmly folded his hands on the table. “I haven’t talked to you in awhile. So are you back in school yet?”

Michael led Debbie with a head nod to the far end of the counter. Once there, she came around, framed his face in her hands and beamed, “Don’t ever let anybody tell you you’re not the fucking smartest man on earth.”

“Mom,” Michael pushed her hands away, “You’re saying that to the wrong man. But while we’re at it, keep talking. We have to make this look legit.”

“Oh. Well. Let me tell you what your Uncle Vic did today. He-”

The Cook broke in with three loud DINGS on the call bell.

“Can’t you see we’re fucking TALKING?” Deb punched a hand on her hip.

Familiar with Deb’s mouth, Cook drolled, “Michael. You got a special delivery in the alley. Pronto.”

“What?” Michael’s brows knit.

They were joined by a Burly Bear who jawed at Debbie, “Is anybody serving in this place?”

“Hold your balls. I’ll be right there,” she turned back to Michael but he was gone.

 

* * * * *

Michael stepped out the back door into the shadowy alley, looked around and saw a thin kid step from behind the dumpster.

“Hunter?” he nearly shrieked, “What the FUCK are you DOING here?”

“What the fuck is TAKING you so long?” Hunter bit back, flipped his hair from his eyes, “Do you realize how many fucking counselors are trying to brainwash me into loving my bitch Mom?”

Michael glanced around quickly, grabbed Hunter’s shoulders moved him into a corner beside the dumpster and shielded view with his own body. “Do YOU realize how much fucking TROUBLE we could get into if anybody caught you here? How the hell did you get out?”

“Two blowjobs does wonders.”

“I don’t wanna hear this,” Michael shook his head.

“You ASKED me.”

“You have to go back.”

“How long?”

“Look,” Michael calmed down. “We have a plan, but-”

 

* * * * *

“-it takes time for things to work out,” Ben eyed Justin, “Don’t you think Brian would rather see you going out with your friends than staying at the Loft all the time?”

“But I’m working on a special project, and all my stuff is there,” Justin raised his brows.

“Are you sure that’s all?” Ben watched Justin’s evasive eyes, lowered his voice. “Justin, if there’s something else going on-”

 

* * * * *

“-I want you to believe that no matter what, we’re always here for you, okay?” Michael held Hunter’s eyes until Hunter grudgingly nodded. “Now I want you to go back and STAY there, or this plan might not work. Do you understand?”

Hunter nodded again with a hung-down face.

“We love you,” Michael backed off, finally got a little smile before Hunter turned and slinked away.

“And don’t pick up any spare cash on the way,” Michael added.

Hunter’s only response was a despondent raised hand.

 

* * * * *

Michael returned to Ben’s table but wasn’t able to hide a grim face that drew Ben’s knit brows. Debbie tailed Michael in. Seeing his chance, Justin launched from the booth to roadblock Debbie and let Michael slide into the vacated seat.

“Please?” Justin softly begged her.

Debbie shifted pained eyes from one side to the other before giving a reluctant nod.

“Thank you!” Justin shot away, stopping only to remove his apron and fling it on the counter before dashing out the door.

Debbie leaned a palm on the table, looked from one to the other. “Now does anybody want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Ben leaned back, “Justin was expelled because of the Vangard deal.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Debbie bit her lip. “No wonder he’s been so down.”

Debbie beaded on Michael. “And where the hell did YOU go?”

Michael looked up, fidgeted locked hands. “Hunter was out back.”

Two excited “What?”s from Debbie and Ben before Michael continued, “He’s getting antsy and wants to know when we’re getting him out.”

“Is he still here?” Ben gripped the seatback to dash out.

“I told him to go back. Practically ripped the heart out of him,” Michael stared at the table. “We have to do something before he decides to sneak out again and run.”

“That poor kid,” Debbie looked off. “No more fucking paperwork. I’m doing what Brian said.”

Having trooped in unnoticed, Brian slid into the booth behind Ben, looked up at Debbie, “You mean you actually listened to me?”

Debbie pursed her lips and smacked him in the head.

“Ow,” he hand-brushed his hair into place, “You know, there ARE special establishments for that kind of play.”

“That was for not keeping an eye on Sunshine when he was working at Vangard. Why didn’t you tell me he was expelled? Poor kid’s bordering on depression. If he already isn’t there.” Debbie looked up at Burly Bear’s raised hand. “Excuse me,” she toned professionally and went to investigate.

“Something else,” Ben mumbled low.

Brian side-glanced, “What?”

Ben blew a breath, swiveled to face Brian. “I think he’s worried about you being out of work and maybe, just maybe, thinks he’s responsible.”

“But I’m NOT out of work,” Brian raised a brow that drew their combined surprised looks. “As of Saturday, I’m starting a new job.” His eyes scanned the Diner for Justin.

“That’s great,” Michael lit, “Which Agency?”

“Turner Lumber.”

“A lumber yard?” Michael’s face twisted.

“I decided to cancel my membership at the Gym and put my energy into something more constructive,” his eyes wandered again, not noticing Ben and Michael exchanging looks. Their silence questioned his sincerity. “I was due for a temporary change,” he smiled to relieve their shock. “That’s why I stopped by. To tell Justin. Where is he, anyway?”

Ben and Michael traded looks before Michael said, “He took off a few minutes before you got here.”

“I think he might be headed back to the Loft,” Ben offered.

“Thanks,” Brian nodded, swung to a stand and walked past Debbie taking an order.

“Hold it,” she stopped him on command, “Justin hasn’t had dinner yet,” she glared at Brian as she wrote and toned, “Two Specials on the house. And you’re not going back without ‘em.”

“Did I say I wasn’t?” Brian rolled his tongue against his cheek and slouched against the counter, watched Debbie thunder to the pickup station.

 

* * * * *

Justin opened the Loft door, saw faint light. “Brian?”

Scott answered, “He’s not back yet.”

Justin gave a disappointed sigh, stopped past the hall, looked toward the night-darkened windows and saw Scott in his own clothes, sitting on the floor and attaching computer cables to units he’d placed on the bar cart. “What are you doing?” Justin paced over to investigate. “You’re not supposed to use that arm.”

“I got bored, it’s fine and hand me that screwdriver,” Scott nodded at the item on the floor near Justin’s feet.

Justin kicked it to stop within Scott’s reach.

Scott stared at it, then Justin. “I think we got off to a bad start. So what if we backed up and tried again?” He stood tall, winced slightly as he extended his right hand. “Scott Turner. And you are?” Justin didn’t move. “You made yourself clear. I’ll respect that.”

Justin hesitated, shook his hand. “Justin Taylor.” A firm, large hand that DID let go.

“Nice to meet you,” Scott smiled, returned to the back of the computer, watched his work as he talked. “I have a system similar to this at home. You pick it out?”

“A salesman helped,” Justin moved closer, curious. “I wanted to do that myself so I could learn about it.”

“It’s not that hard,” Scott looked up, waved him over, saw his eyes flick off uncertain. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll stand back there,” Scott nodded to the kitchen counter, “But then you’ll have to guess what cable I’m talking about.”

Justin stared a moment. Scott seemed less aggressive in jeans and long-sleeved shirt. More like a regular guy than a stud on the make. “You look like you know what you’re doing,” Justin edged closer and dropped to his knees.

“Everybody has a passion. Mine is wires,” Scott smiled off. “Ever since I was a kid.” He looked at Justin’s tilted head. “I know. What a bizarre thing for a kid to like, hunh?”

“No,” Justin shook his head, “I think it’s great that you knew what you wanted and that you’re still doing it now. That’s what passion is all about. Knowing from the beginning…that’s what you were meant to do…and nothing else could ever be more right.”

“Like your art?”

Justin’s eyes brightened, “Yeah,” before he looked down in a small blush.

“Well, this is MY art.”

Justin watched Scott’s fingers ease along a cable. Then Scott pulled it free-falling to the floor. Another. “What are you doing!”

“Teaching you my art. You said you wanted to learn.”

Justin took in Scott’s smile. It looked open, warm and added a depth of humanity to his attractive face. A layer he hadn’t seen before. Brian was like that. Hidden behind an image most of the time. Maybe Scott wasn’t so bad after all. “Okay,” Justin slapped his hands on his thighs, “Where do we start?”

We already have, Scott picked up a handful of manuals, held them out to Justin, “One step at a time.”

 

* * * * *

Brian just cleared the last step onto the Loft landing when the door opened to Scott’s back. He saw Justin standing close, smiling up at Scott.

“Brian!” Justin glowed.

Scott whirled around, “So how’d it go?”

“Apparently very well,” Brian looked from one to the other, added a smile over a spark of tension when he caught Justin’s smile flicker at Scott. “Are you coming or going?” Brian raised a brow at Scott’s dress.

“Heading home,” Scott stepped out to let Brian enter. “I have to catch up on a few…things.” He tossed Justin a last smile, “Call me if you have any questions,” then lightly smacked Brian’s passing arm and said low, “You, too,” before he trudged down the stairs.

Brian held a brief suspect eye on Scott, slammed the door, turned around and was trapped against it by Justin’s surging body – arms around his neck and a hard kiss.

“Mm,” Justin pulled back, “We finally have the Loft to ourselves.”

“And dinner for two, but I’ll pass,” Brian kept it light, handed his bag to Justin, “So what happened? One minute Scott’s the devil, next, you look like old friends.”

Justin walked to the kitchen, Brian following. “If you get past his act, he’s actually a decent guy,” he put the bag in the fridge. “You know, the kind who does the right thing when you least expect it.” 

“Scott’s good at doing what you least expect.”

“He helped me hook up my system,” Justin pointed to the equipment neatly organized beside his easel.

“And you can help me hook up mine,” Brian slinked close, pulled him into an embrace. “I got the job, and I need you to join me in the shower for a little celebration.”

“What company?” Justin beamed excited.

“Turner Construction,” Brian took Justin’s hand, led him around the counter to the bedroom.

Justin froze on the bottom step. “You’re working for SCOTT?”

“Not Scott,” Brian turned, face twisting. He KNEW Justin wasn’t going to take this well. “His brother Dave. Turner Lumber Division.”

“Doing WHAT?”

Brian stepped down to the floor so their eyes were even. “It’s a loading dock,” Brian heard Justin’s breath, stopped the headshake with his framing hands, a deep look, “It’s a job. The benefits are good. And it’s only temporary. Now do we celebrate? Or talk it to death?”

Justin watched Brian’s shifting eyes. A done deal, discussion closed. Whatever you think is right for you, Justin blinked, tilted his head and pressed his lips to Brian’s in a soft kiss. You’re probably thinking right now, you really don’t want that job.

Brian licked Justin’s ear. “In one more minute I’m fucking you on the stairs.”

Okay. So maybe you’ll think about it later. Justin grabbed Brian’s shirtsleeve and took the lead. A fleet shiver ran through him at the bathroom doorway. But it only lasted a second.

* * *

Justin and Brian get it on in the shower.

Song: “Blue Collar” by Bachman Turner Overdrive


	8. Magnum Load

With morning light, Justin, sketchbook in his lap, sat cross-legged on the floor and gazed at the tree branches, separating each layer in his mind, noting the subtle change in contrast. Until one gazed back. Fuck. Justin swallowed hard, slowly stood up and sidled to the bathroom.

“Brian?” he whispered while looking back, “That goddamned rat’s in the tree.”

“No shit,” Brian tweezer-fished the rat-chewed dark towel from the wastebasket, a sight that made Justin groan and hold his stomach. “Look on the bright side,” Brian let the towel fall to hiding, “It couldn’t possibly have gotten into anything valuable.”

“The computers?” Justin motioned Brian to the doorway, “See it?” pointed to a dark spot in the branches. “I have an idea. Go open the Loft door then meet me down there,” Justin pointed to his stretcher corner.

Brian did as requested, met Justin gathering art gum erasers the size of small rocks.

“Think you can hit it with one of these?” Justin held them out.

“Wouldn’t a broom handle work better?”

“We shouldn’t get too close. Scott said one time one of his men was working underground and scared one. It jumped on him and bit the tip of his nose off.”

“Why that old sweet-talker,” Brian grabbed the erasers, looked down and picked up a couple lengths of wood framing. “Whoever thought that art was such a versatile field. Here,” he handed one to Justin. “When it hits the floor, steer it with this.”

Justin smiled, “We DO think alike.”

“NOW you’re scaring me,” Brian moved out, motioned Justin to the other side.

Brian’s first try hit the trunk hard enough to shake the tree and roust the rat. It scurried down to the floor. Stamping feet, flailing wood and “Out! Go! Watch the hardwood floor!” flushed it through the open door.

A woman’s scream exploded in the hall.

Brian looked at Justin’s wide eyes, dashed out and found Mel plastered to the wall in shock. “How nice to see your mouth open and nothing coming out,” he gently took her arm.

“Are you okay?” Justin hung in the doorway, spied a clipped packet of papers fanned on the landing and snatched it up.

Mel took two steps, let out a breath, turned and rapid-fired four hits on Brian’s arm. “Don’t you EVER do that to me again!”

“I didn’t plan on it the FIRST time,” Brian winced, saw Mel grab her bulging stomach. He gripped her arm, “Inside. Now. And just breathe.” He glanced at Justin, “Get a chair.”

Brian guided Mel inside, Justin ran a desk chair over and they both eased her down. “Is it bad?” Brian asked, then to Justin, “Get her some water,” back to Mel. “I’m taking you in. Which hospital?”

“No. No,” she wiped a hand across her forehead, “It’s okay now,” she blew a breath.

Justin handed her an open bottle. “Are you sure?”

She took a sip, nodded yes and handed the bottle back to Justin, looked at Brian’s worried face and smiled before she caught herself with a brassy, “I knew you two did three-ways but I wasn’t expecting THAT one.”

Ah. She’s all right, Brian crossed his arms, “Now that our little secret is out, so to speak…what the fuck are you DOING here?”

“Brian,” Justin called from the counter where he’d set the water. “What IS this?” he read their names on the top page of Mel’s papers, flipped to the next.

“You didn’t talk to him yet?” Mel flared low and saw Brian give a pained side-glance. “I think I’ll leave you two alone,” she let Brian help her up, looked along the landing with an afterthought. “You don’t happen to have an armed escort, do you?”

Brian called to Justin, “Keep reading. I’ll be right back.”

Justin nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

 

* * * * *

When they reached the car, Mel insisted on getting herself into the driver’s seat, grumbled, “If I’m lucky, I’ll make it to work on time.”

Brian leaned an arm on the roof to be distant yet available. “You could’ve called before you came.”

“Oh yeah? So how does it feel?” Mel cut, saw his eyes dart to the Loft windows and knew his mind was elsewhere. “I should’ve let you read it first.”

He smiled back, “If you did it, I’m sure it’s fair and complete.”

She stared a moment at this psuedo Brother-You-Hate-To-Love. “Thank you for that…and the hospital thing,” then added a harsh, “But don’t let that get around. People might think we like each other.”

“God forbid hell should freeze over.”

“-again,” Mel glanced at the Loft windows and shut her door. 

 

* * * * *

Brian entered the Loft, quietly shut the door. Empty counter. Moving inside, he stopped when he saw Justin sitting at his easel, still reading.

Justin quickly palmed an eye, cleared his throat, raised his head. “Was this YOUR idea?”

“Part of the benefit package,” Brian looked off.

Justin did a dramatic nod, stared at his hand brushing over their printed names, looked at Brian with sincere depth. “I’m not signing this.”

“Why not?” Brian snapped, stepped closer then let his eyes wander, “If it’s about the debt, most of it’s paid, and if the worst came, the Loft is worth-”

“That’s not it,” Justin softly interrupted, again watching his hand float on the top page.

Brian stopped a few feet from him. “Is there something in it you don’t-”

“What it means,” Justin eyed straight on, “If we sign this…it’s…” he exhaled a breath and looked out the window, shook his head. How to say this.

“Conventional?” Brian finished, got Justin’s solid stare. “All it is, is a piece of paper.”

“Yeah. Right,” Justin gripped the packet, talked to it, “A piece of paper that you’ll think about. Until it closes in on you…and makes you feel like…all you want to do is get out…and anything else…maybe stops mattering anymore.”

“Are you referring to ME? Or YOU?” Brian watched Justin’s eyes meet his, blink a firm answer. Brian nodded. Understandable. “It’s a piece of paper. My idea.”

“I suppose now’s the part where you tell me the rest is my call.”

“No. I want you to sign it.”

Justin watched Brian’s eyes. They didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t lie.

 

* * * * *

With Debbie riding shotgun, Emmett idled Ted’s car along a block of rundown row houses. Debbie squinted at Number 1600.

“Stop the car. This is it,” she shook her head with pity.

Emmett geared into park, twisted sideways. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“I have to do this myself,” Debbie pat his thigh, gathered up her papers. “Can you just park down the block? I don’t want to aggravate her any more than I have to,” Debbie looked at her papers, bit her lip, “If I could just keep a reign on my fucking mouth.”

“You’ll do fine, Sweetie,” Emmett assured with a shoulder pat.

Debbie nodded, got out, slammed the door and watched Emmett drive away. Then she put on her crusader face and marched up the steps, knocked hard.

After forever, Rita Montgomery cracked the door and spat, “We don’t want any.”

Debbie dropped crusader. This had to be pure mom. “I came about Hunter.”

“You from Family Services?”

“Please,” Deb took a breath, “My name is Debbie Novotny, and I’m petitioning to adopt Hunter.”

“You fucking...how the HELL did you get my address! Fucking Family Services,” Rita moved to slam the door.

“I’ll PAY you to listen. Three-hundred dollars enough?” Debbie dug through her purse, side-viewed the door opening wider, Rita’s eyes on the purse. She held the cash in view. “I got your address from one of Hunter’s friends. For a meal.”

Rita’s eyes hardened. “It’s in the courts. I can’t tell you shit,” but she kept her eyes on the money.

“I came because I have information you should know. On how much it costs to care for a kid with HIV. Do you know how much it costs? In time? And money?” she slid the money under the paper clip on the info packet and held it out. “I didn’t make it up. It’s all on the Internet. And if you don’t believe me, you can check it out with your Advocate,” Debbie quietly suggested.

Rita reached for the papers and turned them sideways to pull them through the crack in the door.

Debbie bit her tongue hard when she saw Rita count the bills before she read the papers, fought to keep her voice mellow. “All I can say is, I’m ready to take on that responsibility. Are YOU?” She finally met Rita’s eyes in a dead-on stare. Before it turned to a threat, Debbie nodded “Thank you for your time,” turned and walked away.

Debbie was near tears when she got into the car, slammed the door.

“Sweetie?” Emmett rubbed her shoulder, “You tried.”

“I had to make Hunter look like a fucking anchor weight,” she rubbed an eye, “And he’s not that at all. He’s a good kid. A great kid. But if I told her THAT, she’d fucking turn him into a porn star,” Debbie dug a tissue from her purse, sniffled, dabbed her eyes. “Now take me home. My fucking mascara is all over the fucking place.”

Emmett put the car in gear and kept silent. Nothing left but hope.

 

* * * * *

On the outside of a frosted glass window: Notary Public. Inside the small office, Justin and Brian sat together – each in jeans and tee shirt, Brian’s black and Justin’s white - across the desk from a frost-haired older woman scrutinizing their driver’s licenses.

Justin glanced at Brian calmly leaning back in his chair and watching her.

“Thank you,” she handed each license back, set a pen on the last page of the open contract and turned it toward Brian. “If you’ll just sign here above your name.”

Brian leaned forward, did it quick, pushed the contract to Justin and handed him the pen.

Justin took a breath, his left hand unconsciously jittering on his thigh.

Brian watched the tapping doubt. He slid his hand over Justin’s so that his long fingers settled between Justin’s smaller ones, felt Justin’s fingers trap his. Then Brian squeezed as well, closing any spaces between them. And Justin wrote.

They watched the Notary stamp, sign, emboss…a done deal.

 

* * * * *

Sitting in the parked the car, they stared at each other before Brian’s questioning gaze got Justin’s response.

“This feels weird. I don’t WANT it to, but it does. I mean…” Justin watched his hands tensely clasped on the folder in his lap, “…I never even bought a car. Or a house. Now this…”

“People buy cars and houses all the time. After a little pain…” Brian circled his arm around Justin’s shoulders and kissed him, “…they discover the GOOD part of it.” When Justin smiled his grasp, Brian tried for normal. “What time are you supposed to be at work?”

“I called off while you were getting dressed. Do you realize you took only a whole hour to put on jeans and a tee shirt?”

“Fuck,” Brian checked himself. “I KNEW I shouldn’t have rushed through that.”

He watched Justin exhale a silent chuckle, a headshake. Better now. Brian started up the car and turned onto the main street.

 

* * * * *

Entering the Loft, Brian headed for the bathroom, Justin for a bottled water in the fridge.

Brian unbuttoned, raised the toilet seat and heard Justin yell, “You know, that rat might still be in the building. Did you call maintenance?”

“Not yet.”

“Remember what Scott said.”

Brian looked at the toilet, down at his dick, quickly shut the toilet lid and moseyed to the shower stall. He looked in, smiled at the grate over the drain, aimed his stream there after a quick glance at the shut toilet and one toward the door to warn if Justin was near.

After dousing the shower with the hand-held sprayer, Brian lifted the bag from the bathroom wastebasket, frowned at the chewed holes and rat droppings at the bottom of the basket. He opened the sink cabinet for another bag, shook it open, set the torn bag inside. Then he took Justin’s empty med bottle off the sink, held it over the open bag and paused.

Justin stood looking out the front window, turned when he heard Brian come down the stairs with a white plastic bag in his hand. “You’re finally taking out the trash.”

“First, maintenance. THEN I’ll take you to dinner.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Justin deadpanned to Brian’s devil grin. He moved close, hooked an arm around Brian’s. “And since you’re in such a good mood, I know just the place.”

 

* * * * *

In the Giant Mart, a grocery cart loaded with greens stopped in the aisle. Michael’s brows knit as he touched an item written on their shopping list. Ben looked over his shoulder and translated, “Cheese Doodles. It says Cheese Doodles.”

“Well we missed it,” Michael was distracted by a cart moving too close - artichoke hearts and a jar of snails in it.

“Hi Sweeties!” Emmett stopped his cart, looked across their cart to another sitting alone. “Ohmygod. Brian’s here, TOO?”

All three glanced at a cart in which health cereals, coffee, wheat breads, romaine, canned and paper goods were arranged in rows according to matching height.

“Em!” Justin cheered as he and Brian approached with oranges and olive oil. “Hey Ben, Michael,” Justin laid the oil in their basket; Brian stood it up and pushed it to one side. “You are so anal,” Justin murmured, droll-eyed Brian’s wide return grin.

“THIS is a first,” Michael motioned to all the friends.

“It’s the New Woody’s,” Brian set the oranges in the cart. Moved them a couple times.

Emmett seriously looked them over. “What are all you twosomes doing here on singles night?”

“Singles night?” Justin rolled his eyes up, poked Brian who was scanning the aisles.

“Yea-ah,” Emmett answered. “Every Thursday.”

Michael replied, “We needed Cheese Doodles.” He saw all eyes shift from their cart to Ben and firmly stated, “For my MOM? She’s been down since she went to see Hunter’s Mom,” Michael pegged Brian. “Does the shortest distance between two points ring a bell?”

Emmett touched Michael’s shoulder. “From what I saw, Honey? She was positively eloquent. I didn’t lip-read oooone tiny fuck you.”

Brian raised a brow, “I’m impressed. Nothing makes an enemy faster than threats or humiliation.”

Justin looked at his right hand, flexed it in thought then diverted to their cart. “Shit.”

“Aisle Four,” Brian chipped

Justin gave a silent wry laugh, “Be right back,” and hiked up the aisle.

“And I,” Emmett glanced around, “Have to go looking for…something I haven’t found yet. Bye, Sweeties.”

Emmett took off down the aisle.

“Brian,” Ben drew his attention, “If you and Justin aren’t doing anything, why don’t you come over for dinner? We’re going Veggie Delight.”

“Maybe not tonight,” Brian pushed his cart along, “Thanks anyway.” No way.

“If you change your mind…” Michael called, went back to his list. “Oh yeah. Cheese Doodles.”

“That way,” Ben pointed back, turned the cart and they both headed up the aisle.

Justin breezed back, set a tub of ice cream in their cart. Brian lifted it out and read the label. “Put this back and get Lowfat Yogurt.”

Justin reclaimed it, thumped it back in the cart. “You can’t skimp on some things.”

“It’s over fifty percent fat.”

“That’s what makes it taste better,” Justin smirked then gasped when Brian grabbed his ass and whispered.

“So THAT’S why.”

Justin speared a look, snatched the ice cream, “You’re jerking YOURSELF off tonight. You know that, don’t you,” and tramped up the aisle.

At the upright freezer, Justin opened the door, reached for frozen yogurt and paused when he overheard low conversation between two men beside him.

“Whatever happened with that?” Man One asked.

“Last I heard, the kid’s still in a coma and the police don’t have any leads. Not that they’re even LOOKING for any. Just one more reason to check under the towel first,” Man Two snickered, and they both walked away.

Justin yanked out a vanilla, slammed the door and watched them with irate eyes. Big fucking joke.

Brian was comparing pasta boxes when Justin plunked the yogurt in the basket, clanked a can of Real Whipped Cream in beside it and railed, “I don’t wanna hear a word about it.”

Whipped cream, Brian lit with ideas, “It’s okay to splurge once in awhile.”

“Let’s go,” Justin grabbed the cart and drove, leaving Brian behind.

Brian shelved one box and loped to catch up. Note to self: Certain anatomy digs are off-limits.

 

* * * * *

In the Loft kitchen, Brian helped Justin put away groceries with little more then “Where do you want this?” conversation.

Justin set a large pot beside a remaining pasta box. “I’ll get the water started,” reached for the pot and had his hand clenched by Brian’s.

“I’LL get it started,” Brian raised his brows, pulled Justin around the counter and toward the bathroom. Something more was going on than a little below-the-belt kidding.

 

* * * * *

Clothing heaped together beside the stall, water washing out tension, Brian embraced Justin out of the stream, kissed him and smiled at the more relaxed, in-tune look in Justin’s eyes. “Feel better?”

“I can tell YOU do,” Justin wrinkled his nose, took a condom and handed it to Brian.

“Later,” Brian put it back, turned off the water, stepped from the stall. He snatched two towels and handed one to Justin while drying himself. “Meet me at our usual spot.”

 

* * * * *

Lying in bed, Brian waited for Justin to settle on his back then rolled to a side, head propped on a raised arm. “I’d ask you if anything was wrong, but you know how I hate stupid questions. Your turn.”

Justin blinked, looked off, “Just everything crowding in at one time. That Adonis guy still in a coma…” he felt Brian’s palm settle on his chest, “I know. I know. But I’ve BEEN there…” he traced a finger down each of Brian’s, “…and nobody deserves that for ANY reason.” He bit his lip, “Then there’s…” he glanced toward Brian’s office area.

Brian caught it. “Either one of us could tear it up anytime if it’s that much of a problem.” Brian felt Justin’s hand grip his. “Is it?”

“No,” Justin whispered through a faint smile.

“Then you should take advantage of it and make a doctor’s appointment.”

“All he’ll do is send me for a scan and charge me five-hundred bucks.”

“Do it. I’ve got it covered.”

“Under some plan with a shit job you don’t deserve,” Justin rose eyes even.

“It’ll serve its purpose,” Brian wrapped an arm around Justin, lay back pulling Justin onto his chest, kissed his hair. “Trust me.”

Justin lightly ran his hand along Brian’s free arm, kissed a nipple and pressed his cheek against it. “Brian…do I whitewash you?”

“What? Where did you get THAT?” Brian quietly chuckled.

“Do you respect Scott because he tells it like it is and doesn’t whitewash?”

“Ah. The World According to Scott. Yes, I value his opinion. But that’s all it is. His opinion. If I had only HIM to listen to, I’d think I was the biggest bastard that ever lived.” 

“You’re not that. Not at all.”

Brian rolled them both so that he stared down into Justin’s eyes, softly smiled, “See why your opinion is so important?” then kissed his smile. His cheek. His neck. Kept on going down his chest. Spread light kisses over the shaved hairs of his mound, heard the small giggle break Justin’s breaths when he kissed a ticklish spot on his groin.

“You’ll make me laugh,” Justin pushed Brian’s head away, moaned when Brian’s hand surrounded his stiffened cock, soft lips pressing over the tip, letting it break through into tight, caressing warmth.

Without losing stride, Brian worked himself between Justin’s spreading legs, slid his arms under and around each thigh, shoulders pushing Justin’s knees up as he gripped Justin’s legs to stop the bucking urge.

Justin panted, eyes cracked enough to watch Brian work. One hand twisted fingers through Brian’s hair; the other raked his own locks as he struggled against firm arms holding him down. Too much. Too good. He smiled deliriously. Drove deep into Brian’s throat. Cried out. Let himself go. Let everything go. Let it go.

Brian drained him, swallowing a near gagging load, felt Justin relax. Heard his long moan. Slowly released Justin’s spent cock as he fought to ignore his own gorged dick. Not over yet. Not yet. Brian took Justin’s ankle, eased one leg flat, repositioned on his side, knees near Justin’s chest, armpit tented over the straight leg. He reached under Justin’s raised thigh, coaxed it toward him until Justin rolled to his side, swung his leg over Brian’s head and draped it across Brian’s waist.

Justin flattened onto his chest. Ran his hand up Brian’s thigh searching for his cock, but Brian stopped it with a gentle hand and a “Not yet.” Then Justin clenched Brian’s thigh and moaned again at the sensation of being exposed. Spread open. And Brian’s tongue lazily brushing the base of his balls. Trailing up to his hole. Circling, kissing until he could barely stand it.

Brian heard the change in Justin’s tone, saw the shift of his pelvis – up and high, the folds of his hole distend its invitation. And he drove his tongue in. Deep. Shallow. Traveling, returning. Then he pulled back, looked at Justin’s half closed stare.

Justin’s own cock revived. He saw Brian rise to his knees, eyes signaling, cock heavy, erect, urgent…and he knew what Brian needed…what he himself wanted. Justin rolled to his stomach, walked his knees to level and raise his ass until Brian’s hand on his back stopped him.

“Not that way. Put your legs up on my shoulders.”

Justin’s heartbeat pounded relentless as he shifted onto his back, legs on Brian’s shoulders, eyes never leaving each other except when he twisted aside for a condom packet and Brian leaned the other way for lube. As Brian’s hand reached for the condom, Justin hid it in a clenched fist. Breathed heavier. Eyes piercing Brian’s. Let’s go raw. Just this one time. Just tonight. And I’ll never ask again.

Brian exhaled a slow breath. So bad. If ever he wanted it…so bad. He forced a small smile, shook his head no. Took Justin’s fist in the palm of his hand and held it. You mean too much to me.

Justin slowly released the packet, swallowed the refusal as he watched Brian strip the packet open.

“Put it on me,” Brian held out the thin ring. “It’s the only thing that should ever come between us,” he whispered, fingered a dab of gel on Justin’s hole, sucked a breath as Justin eased the condom over him.

Justin lay back smiling over those words. Felt Brian’s cock touch him. He flinched at the bite of its entry, wet his lips and moaned at the way it stretched and filled and excited him. The sight of Brian closing forward made him reach out, wrap his arms around him and pull tight into their kiss.

Time, movement…all stopped. Nothing else mattered right then.

* * *

The empty condom packet slips off the moving mattress, lands on heavy gloves beside a pair of workboots on the ledge. 

Song: “Beautiful Strange (Ambient Mix)” by Bedrock


	9. Magnum Load

First day. Third shift. Temperate black night. Brown paper bag of needs under his arm, Brian stood in the bright pole light outside the Turner Lumber warehouse, took a deep breath and walked in. Almost heard Jack laughing – Welcome to a Real Man’s World.

First to notice him, a wiry little Asian guy hiked over with a who-the-hell-are-you scowl. “Yeah?”

Amercanized Asian. “Kinney. I’m starting tonight,” Brian panned the room. “Are you the Foreman?”

The Asian’s face relaxed. “So you’re the token white-collar.”

Brian did a tongue in cheek, “Is there anything else you want to know that hasn’t gotten around yet?”

“Always good to know who you work with,” the Asian eyed Brian’s unflustered smile, figured he was okay. “I’m the token Korean. Chinc.”

Brian checked a hand that wasn’t offered. “I thought that was Chinese.”

Chinc shrugged, “You all look alike to me, too. Tank should be in shortly. Wait in there,” he waved a gloved hand to the break room door, turned and walked away.

Brian opened the door, watched Chinc. Down the dock past him, three guys nudged, pointed and looked his way then converged on Chinc, the obvious informant. Great start. Associated with the enemy – former management. Brian went inside .

After scouting around, he took Justin’s med bottle from his pocket and shook rat droppings onto the floor around a loaded garbage can. He washed his hands, opened the fridge and was staring into THAT trash heap for a place to set his lunch when the door opened and a hefty, gym-honed guy walked in. Decent face, dark and silver hair, eagle tattoo on his bicep – genuine Super Breeder. “You Kinney?”

“Yeah,” Brian watched him slap a large metal lunchbox on the table, remove a pound of cholesterol to get to a couple skin mags in the bottom.

“Foreman. Tank. I’ll introduce you to the gang and we’ll get started,” he repacked lunch. “Know anything about wood?”

“Some.” No need to elaborate.

Tank opened the fridge, edged his lunchbox on a full shelf, crunched it in with a workboot. “Gotta make your own space around here,” he snatched Brian’s bag, crammed it against somebody else’s, “Like that.” He slammed the door, stood and looked Brian over. "This ain’t no desk job, Slick.”

“I don’t expect it to be,” Brian raised a brow, pulled on heavy gloves and saw Tank’s lips curl into a Boy-Are-We-Gonna-Have-Some-Fun-With-YOU smile.

We’ll see about that, Brian matched. “You’re the leader.”

Tank’s smile changed. He liked the sound of that, and Brian got his number immediately, followed him out to the dock. Two hurdles past – showed he wasn’t an authority threat, and got a new name, uncomplimentary as it sounded. He was officially in. Or WAS he?

Tank walked the dock like his name. “Ladies,” he bellowed, “Got a new one here.”

Ladies? Brian’s gaydar sank sub-zero as he watched six men flock in front of him and stand in various stages of ease while Tank spoke.

“Slick here-” he shot a look at Brian, “-is gonna grade.” At Brian, “I ain’t rattling names you ain’t gonna remember anyway.” Tank pointed out each man, who nodded on cue, “You met Chinc. That’s Creet,” beer-bellied simple type, “- Slash,” middle-aged hood, “-Dog,” face only a mother could love, “- Mom -” token Black?

“Chief cook. Fine dining Monday and Thursday,” Mom grinned with tobacco teeth.

“And Torch,” Tank finished on a snaky thin Southern Boy, the only one who really smiled.

“I used to be Hoopy,” Torch drawled, “But I was doin’ the barbecue pit? And sorta caught fire,” he blushed. “Put myself out, though,” he proudly added. “Been Torch ever since. Beat the fuck outta Hoopy.”

“We can socialize later,” Tank parked a heavy hand on Brian’s shoulder, grinned “Got a routine test to see how fast you pick up.”

Brian caught a smidge of amused exchange between the Ladies as Tank guided him to an aisle. Something was up.

“Let’s see how you handle the White,” Tank pointed to an elephant of a forklift sitting perpendicular in the aisle. “Climb aboard and I’ll fill you in.”

Brian sat in the seat, followed Tank’s swift moving hand.

“Over here you got forward, neutral and reverse,” he pointed to the steering column. “On your right you got three levers. Lift, tilt and sideshift. Think you can remember that?”

“I’ll try,” Brian clenched a knee to hold back any lethal one-liner.

“Brake and gas are same as a car. Key’s on the column. Give ‘er a half turn to start ‘er up, then take it forward to that wall and back it up to this same spot. Just remember, if you lose control, you break it up, you CLEAN it up. Go.”

Brian watched Tank join the spectators, noticed a barrel of wood scraps and two over-flowing trash cans behind him. Ahead, fork blade marks in the block wall. Brian turned the key, geared forward, grabbed the steering wheel and did a hard left turn that aimed him up the clear aisle. Behind him, mouths dropped and Torch smacked Chinc’s arm.

A few yards down the aisle, Brian shifted to neutral. Hit the brake. But it dropped to the floor with bare response. He quick-glanced the emergency pedal and jammed on it. The White stopped. He grinned over his shoulder, “Not a bad ride.” Then he reversed and slowly backed into the original spot with the emergency still on, shut it down. “I hate to give you bad news on my first day, but the brakes are fucking shot,” he swung down, kept a serious face.

Tank poked Chinc’s shoulder. “Go tag it,” nodded to Brian impressed, “You pass,” then a general “Okay. Back to work. Creet. C’mere a minute.” And the party broke up.

Brian watched Chinc wire a bright orange Out Of Service tag to the steering wheel. The equipment ID and status lines were already penciled in. “Do you speed write, too?”

Chinc eyed him, knew they were made. “Some guys panic and fall apart. Some blow up and take it personal. You didn’t do either…and you didn’t even get dirty.” He smiled “Welcome to The Pressboard Jungle,” held out his hand and got Brian’s firm return shake. “How’d you figure it out so fast?”

“I wasn’t about to pick up your trash.”

Chinc saw Creet coming. “See you around,” he nodded to Brian and left.

Creet stopped. “Okay, Slick. You’re with me tonight. Know anything about separating prime studs from garbage?”

“Some.” Again, no need to elaborate.

“Before I forget, we got three rules around here. First, don’t admit to nothin’…second, don’t volunteer for nothin’.”

“My, grade school has taught you well,” just slipped out.

“Thanks,” Creet smiled too sincerely.

Caught Brian off for a moment. “That’s two. What’s the third rule?”

“Third, don’t believe nothin’ a dock man tells ya,” he chuckled and punched Brian’s shoulder before he turned and walked on.

Brian rubbed his shoulder, moved to catch up. Real fun bunch. “What about the rats?”

“WHAT rats?” Creet hard–stared.

“In the Break Room. I saw some tracks by the trash. Do you know they carry rabies, maybe Hanta Virus? I just read an article on that the other day. All you need to do is breath it, and once it gets into your system there’s no cure. You bleed inside from everywhere,” Brian shook his head at Creet’s white face, “Fucking horrible way to go.”

“Shit. Man in Electrical got his nose bit off by one, too,” Creet turned, yelled through the din, “HEY TANK!”

Brian lagged back, giving Creet enough time to elaborate, then watched Tank beckon Torch over, point to the Break Room. Torch listened with a noticeable wince, nodded and headed for the Room.

By the end of the shift, Brian figured out the pecking order. And the Break Room wasn’t spotless, but at least tolerable.

 

* * * * *

In the dark Loft, Justin tossed and turned, felt the empty spot beside him and finally got up. He used faint streetlight from the windows to find his way to Brian’s office desk, turned on the desk lamp. He ran a finger down a disc tower beside Brian’s computer, stopped on Brown Athletics. Pulled that disc. Checked the bottom, saw WaveLight and pulled it. Then he walked them to his area, dragged the easel to his computer and switched on the clip light. He sat on a stool, fired up his system, put WaveLight in the disc tray. File: Copy Disc. As: Project 1. To: C-Drive. Start.

While waiting, he paced back to Brian’s desk, straightened the bills, took a seat and rested his hand on the drawer file. He pulled it open, spied the papers filed under JT-BK Contract, smiled and shut the drawer. Then he looked at the bills again.

 

* * * * *

Morning. Justin lifted his head off crossed arms on his desk, blinked blurry eyes against bright light, felt a hand on his shoulder and Brian’s voice low at his ear.

“Burning the midnight oil?”

“Trying to learn this program,” Justin yawned, struggled to a stand, “How’d it go?” he grabbed and squeezed Brian’s right hand, heard him hiss and pull away. “What’s wrong?” Justin took Brian’s wrist, saw his bruised palm. “Oh god. Brian.”

“It’s the Blue Badge of Honor,” Brian’s left hand took Justin’s and led him to the bedroom. “Just…no Age Cards.” He dragged up the stairs, kissed Justin’s forehead, released his hand. “You look like I feel. Go stretch out until I get back.”

Justin watched Brian snail by, perch his hands on his hips, arch his back and grunt. And the decline to share a shower was rare. “Okay,” he answered, crawled onto the bed to wait. And wait. And wait. All the while, the shower ran.

Justin padded into the bathroom. “Brian, you’re gonna run out of hot water.” His eyes widened “Shit!” and he whipped the shower door open when he saw Brian naked and prone on his stomach atop two soggy towels. He straddled Brian to shut the valves and knelt dripping beside him, touched his shoulder. “Brian. Brian. Are you okay?”

“We need a Jacuzzi,” Brian mumbled, eyes closed.

“Well you scared the fucking shit out of me,” Justin jumped up, snatched a towel, rubbed it through his own hair then slowly worked it over Brian’s body. “Are you coming to bed? Or should I throw your pillow in here?”

Brian grunted and winced as he pushed into a seated position. “Third shift is obviously an acquired taste.”

Justin, kneeling with a towel, scanned him for more damage and stopped on his cock. “How could you be half dead and still have a hard-on.”

“Your expert towel job…” Brian grinned, “…and wet tee shirt,” he tweaked Justin’s nipple and got an open-mouthed flinch. Then he touched Justin’s cheek. “It’s just the first day. Once I get the job down, things will be easier. Now if you’ll assist me…”

Justin nodded, stood and offered his arm.

Brian staggered up, leaned on Justin. “This isn’t exactly what I meant, but we’ll get to the rest later,” Brian pulled his silk robe off a peg, let Justin help him put it on. “First I need a drink to dull the pain.”

“I’ll get it,” Justin blurted, hurried out the door, down the steps.

Justin gathered the stamped envelopes he remembered leaving on the edge of the bar, turned toward his desk and right into Brian.

“Party invitations?” Brian pulled the letters from his hand, swiveled to the light, perused the creditor addresses then turned a calm eye back.

Justin raised his head. “I only paid half. From MY checkbook,” Justin walked up to him, took the envelopes back. “We have a signed contract, remember?” he grinned with renewed justification, strolled back to the bar. “Do you want scotch or whiskey?” He opened a cabinet, set out both bottles and froze when arms wrapped around him.

Brian whispered in his ear, “Now that I know you’ll understand…I called your Doctor, and you WILL keep the appointment. Whiskey.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed and he set a glass down hard. “You lead a charmed life.”

“I have a little help,” Brian ran a hand through Justin’s damp hair and shagged it up. 

 

* * * * *

Two weeks later, Michael and Vic walked into the Diner and slid into the booth beside the one Justin was cleaning.

“Hey, Justin,” Michael smiled.

Justin left his bus pan, wiped his hands and joined them, “What brings YOU guys in tonight?”

Vic started, “Rodney has choir practice-”

“And Ben’s working on a paper,” Michael finished. “What’s going on with Brian? He hasn’t been around for at least a couple weeks now.”

“It took him that long to get used to the night shift,” Justin pulled his checkbook, “And when he’s up, he’s working on ads for later.”

“He’ll make it. It’s what he does best,” Michael nodded.

“Doesn’t sound like it leaves you much time together,” Vic watched Justin’s face.

“We make time,” Justin assured with a sly smile.

“I can’t believe he’s on a dock,” Michael shook his head, “How’s it working out? I mean…all those breeders.”

“He doesn’t have much to say about it,” Justin shrugged, “They build up and load supplies for worksites and a couple chain stores. He says it’s laid back. Some of the guys take turns sleeping in a spare office. Some even have their wives and girlfriends over for lunch.”

“Not at the same time I hope,” Vic raised a brow.

Justin chuckled, “He doesn’t get into their personal lives. And they have no reason to get into his. Far as I know, he does his part, they do theirs and it’s a job. So,” Justin took a pencil from his apron, “What can I get you?”

“My Mom for one thing.”

“She’s at the Giant Mart. We ran out of bananas,” Justin eyed Michael and Vic exchanging wide grins, “Something up?”

“Hunter’s Mom decided to relinquish her parental rights. It’s not a done deal yet but there’s hope,” Michael lit.

Vic leaned back proudly, “Sis went straight to the source, held her exquisite tongue, gave just the facts…and the door opened.”

Justin beamed, “That means…I can’t wait to see her face when she finds out!” He noticed a Couple beside him eying the bus pan on the neighboring table. “It’s open,” he told them, moved over and grabbed the pan, passed Michael and Vic with “Be back in a minute,” as he carted his load up the aisle.

Justin didn’t get to see Debbie’s initial reaction. But he heard the shrill “Oh my fucking god!” all the way back by the noisy kitchen dishwasher. 

 

* * * * *

On Dock Ten, Brian and Tank stood surrounded by several various-sized pallets of hardwood flooring.

“New job tonight,” Tank arced an arm across the piles. “Ever load a truck before?”

“Once.” With a host of Stockwell refugees. Fifteen degrees and too cold for a blowjob.

“Keep it balanced. Put your heavy pieces up front, and careful when you double stack. This isn’t cheap stuff. Even it side to side or if he takes a hard turn, he’ll tip and shut down the Turnpike for hours. Chinc’ll help you out,” Tank slapped his arm, walked off.

After dumping the mental images of Tank’s words, Brian looked out the open garage door at the unmarked white truck. He shot a look at the Star truck on the next dock. At Ozark and Raven parked in the lot. Northwestern. His brows knit when he checked his unmarked truck again. He watched Tank turn up the stairs to the empty offices, jogged to catch up and reached the base of the steps in time to see Tank disappear into one of the offices when Chinc grabbed his arm.

“Whaddya need?”

“That truck on Door Ten,” Brian casually remarked. “I just wondered which Company.”

“Some Independent. White, I think. Check his manifest,” Chinc looked aside and back, “And don’t go up there.”

A moment later, Tank’s voice boomed “Get rid of it NOW. One more time and you’re fucked. Got it?”

“C’mon,” Chinc led Brian back to the Door Ten. “Slash was supposed to load, but he had a few and Tank had to pull him. He’s a good man, but he’s having a tough time since his wife left. You married?”

Brian looked off, “We have an agreement. But I know the feeling.”

They saw Tank headed their way, Slash leaving with his jacket slung over a shoulder and a bottle-shaped brown bag in hand.

“Slick, I have to hold you for a double,” Tank stood hands on hips. “We’re behind schedule, Slash is off, and you’re the low man. Sorry, but it’s part of the job,” Tank stared unblinking, then turned and walked away. “They don’t pay me enough for some of this shit.”

Chinc cased the load. “It won’t all fit. Leave that off…” he pointed, “And that one…”

“We’ll make it,” Brian pulled a marker from his pocket, studied the pieces and numbered each below its weight mark.

“What’re you doing?”

“A little cut and paste,” Brian stood back, looked it over, changed a number.

A half-hour later, Brian, Chinc and Creet stood looking into the back of a truck evenly stacked to the roof.

Creet shook his head, “That is a thing of beauty. Wish I had a camera.”

Brian corner-eyed his worshipful stare before Chinc interrupted.

“Mind showing me how you did that?”

 

* * * * *

“How can they DO that?” Justin pressed the phone to his ear, sat at Brian’s computer and tapped the space bar. “And how are you gonna go back in tonight with hardly any sleep?” After a pause, Justin smiled and palmed his forehead. “Yeah, I remember. We fucked all night and you were still brilliant in the morning.” He heard a knock on the door, looked up, “I hafta go. Pest Control has been in and out. Later,” Justin set the cordless down and jumped when Scott, sharp in Boss suddenly appeared in front of him. 

“Justin.”

“jesus, Scott,” Justin ran a hand through his hair, “How…”

“Sorry,” Scott looked back, “I had business in the area, and your door was wide open.”

“Pest Control must’ve left,” Justin muttered on his way to the door. “If you’re looking for Brian, he has a double shift and won’t be back till five.”

“I hear he’s doing a helluva job.”

“He always does,” Justin shut the door, moved back to Brian’s desk and sat down. “Wish I could say the same for me,” Justin grabbed a pencil, jotted down the error response on the screen. “I thought it was MY system, but this disc won’t run on Brian’s either.” Justin leaned back, pencil tapping random dots onto the paper.

“You got me there. Wires I know. Software…” Scott shook his head, looked at his watch. “It’s only ten-thirty. How about I take you to lunch and maybe when we get back, you’ll have a clearer head on this.”

“No, I…” Justin looked down at his paper, drew a line between two dots, smiled up, “Actually, that sounds like a decent idea.”

“I’m parked right out front,” Scott smiled, waved Justin ahead of him.

Justin let Scott out, followed and shut the door. “I haven’t talked to you in awhile,” he took lead and started down the stairs.

I’ll bet there are a few other things you haven’t done in awhile, Scott grinned wide behind him.

 

* * * * *

By 10:30 AM, Brian saw five day-shifters heading to the Break Room for lunch. Good enough clock for him. He set a stud on the pile and removed his gloves.

The Day Foreman approached, Gomer Pyle’s Sarg, but with a quieter style.

“Kinney. We got a late runner on Three. Got time to unload him?”

Brian nodded, pulled his gloves back on, met the driver on Door Three and took his manifest. Brian stopped at the open truck door, looked closely at a heavy pallet of hardwood flooring lit by light filtering through the fiberglass truck roof.

Driver joined him. “There a problem here?”

“I thought I saw some damage.”

“Looks okay to me.”

Not to ME, Brian ran his hand over the number Four he’d written on that same piece last night. He briefly drilled the Driver’s eyes for a reaction. Nothing. Clueless. “I’ll have you out in a few minutes.”

 

* * * * *

Driving along the highway with Scott, Justin noticed more and more trees than homes.

Scott nudged, “So the cops pulled you in. Then what?”

“I think I bored you long enough. Where’s this place again?” Really getting rural.

“Not far. Can we swing past my ranch a few minutes?” Scott grimaced, pulled his tie knot loose and unbuttoned his collar, “I need some jeans and a cotton shirt or I’ll be lousy company.”

Justin stalled. His place? Then…he DID look uncomfortable. “Sure.”

“Besides, I built it myself and I like to show it off,” Scott spot-checked Justin. “Unless you think it’ll be too boring.”

“No, I’d like to see it,” Justin quickly added. Seemed okay and NOT at the same time.

“Good,” Scott smiled, planning his moves to be Justin’s choice.

 

* * * * *

Justin stood in the Architectural Digest vault-ceiling’d living room rich in woods and Brianesque furnishings.

“You DID all this?” Justin awed at a wall of glass overlooking scenic landscape.

“Faces north,” Scott pointed at the glass while removing his jacket. “Keeps the sun from overheating the place. Come on. I’ll show you the Loft.”

Scott unbuttoned his shirt, hiked up the open stairway and purposely didn’t look back.

Justin hesitated, opted not to refuse or offend, and followed. Up the stairs, along a balcony overlooking the living room, through one of several open French doors. Into a vast bedroom. When Scott removed his shirt and flung it on the bed with his jacket, Justin diverted to a curtained window-wall. “That’s really…nice.”

“Bathroom’s over there if you need it,” Scott nonchalantly pointed, giving him an out.

“Thanks,” Justin took it. Went through the bathroom doorway, reached for the door, but there was none. So he pissed slow as possible, giving Scott time to dress, flushed the toilet, washed up, paused in the doorway. Scott was still naked, holding a pair of jeans in each hand and apparently having trouble deciding. Fuck. He WAS like Brian.

Scott knew a line like See-Anything-You-Like wouldn’t work on THIS one. So he chose his jeans and dressed slowly in imposing profile while glimpsing Justin’s body language through a mirror lamp base. That’s it, Artist. Look, and appreciate.

Justin caught himself and stepped back. Nothing wrong with liking a nice body. So why did it FEEL wrong. 

Scott’s voice interrupted. “Justin? I’ll be outside on the balcony.”

Unfamiliar with Scott’s house, Justin hurried from the bathroom in time to see him dressed and stepping out a glass sliding door in the window-wall. Justin slowed, edged to the long balcony railing and stopped five feet down from Scott. But he quickly lost himself in an incredible view of hills, trees and sky reflecting on a large pond. “This is…so perfect,” he leaned arms on the rail.

Scott also leaned in the same manner. “When I saw it, I thought it was an artist’s dream.”

Justin rested his chin on his arms; Scott did the same. “This time of year, the sun sets right between those trees,” Scott pointed past Justin, ran eyes over his body when Justin looked away. “It’s always beautiful. Always different, every time.”

Justin turned toward Scott, one arm on the railing, slid his free hand into his pocket. Scott turned to Justin, one arm on the railing, free hand hooking his belt as he stared across the pond. “If you stand out there, it reflects off every window, and you’re surrounded with sunset.”

Justin drank in the mental vision. The look in Scott’s eyes. His longish hair wisping in a light breeze. His full lips moving in words too soft to hear. “I’m sorry. What?” Justin moved closer. Scott looked open, captivating in this place.

“I said,” Scott slowly lowered his chin so that his light brown eyes rolled up and wide and directly into Justin’s, “You seem like someone who really understands a beautiful sunset,” again barely audible, through a melting smile. “If you’d like to see what I’m talking about, let me know, and I’ll show you.”

Scott was nearly whispering, and Justin had moved so close, he felt his eyes trapped. His groin heat. Cock stiffen.

“Would you like that?” Scott whispered, his own cock hard from the charge between bodies in desire.

Justin felt the sizzle. But he’d felt that before. When the words, the place, the image were so right. But the face, the man was not. And pretending and rationalizing could never replace the most important part for him. Scott’s riveting gaze lost its power.

“Yeah, I would,” Justin watched Scott’s smile rise, “Can Brian come with me?”

Scott faltered for a mini-fraction, recovered, “He’s seen it before,” and watched Justin sorely blink off the implication, then recover as well. “You know, when you attach your dick to your heart, you miss out on a lot.”

“No, I think you gain a lot more,” Justin returned.

“Do you really believe that on those nights you’re at the Diner, he isn’t in some back room or at the Baths?” Scott spoke quiet and direct.

“He can do what he wants. And he hasn’t been to the Baths since the night with you,” Justin calmly answered, saw Scott’s eyes drop for a second then return. “You saw him.”

“We’re late for lunch,” Scott open-palmed toward the door. “After you.” 

Justin held out for more discussion, but Scott’s smile flattened in refusal. “Thanks for the tour,” Justin took the steps heavy with Scott keeping well behind him.

At the base of the stairs was a built-in glass case Justin hadn’t noticed earlier until a plaque caught his eye. He stopped and studied the mounted photo. Award of Excellence – Turner Emergency Team, Scott Turner and Chris Harris. Harris could have been a Taylor for all the resemblance.

Scott looked over Justin’s shoulder. “A gift from the Plate Glass Building after we fixed a major outage in time for a Convention.”

Justin saw their matching reflection in the glass door, felt Scott’s hand barely touch his shoulder and moved away. “Was he your boyfriend?”

“We worked together. He died in…an accident,” Scott shook it off, “But that was a long time ago.”

Justin glanced at the photo, back to Scott, “I’ll never be Chris.”

“No, you’re much more. I knew by your touch.”

Justin exhaled and faced Scott. “I’m not gonna blow you. And I won’t let you fuck me.”

“So why are you here?” Scott gave up, “To convince me of my moral obligations?”

“Your obligations are up to YOU,” Justin stated seriously. “I came to discuss a deal.” 

 

* * * * *

2 PM Justin looked through the Loft window and watched Scott’s truck pull away. Then he took in the emptiness of a day without Brian in the shower, or in bed, or at his computer. Missing him. Needing him to erase the encounter with Scott. 

With only a short time left before he himself had to leave for work, Justin went to the kitchen and fixed a turkey on wheat bread with lettuce, tomato, no mayo, two oranges, a small bottled water. Packed them in a brown bag and set it in the fridge, wrote I-made-your-lunch on a post note, lifted it to the fridge door, and smiled with melancholy irony at the same, exactly worded note already there.

 

* * * * *

Later, Brian toured the empty, darkening Loft with the dull ache of a piece missing from his day. He checked his email for any online application responses. None. So he showered in silence, set his alarm to grab a few winks and settled into the most comfortable spot…Justin’s side of the bed.

 

* * * * *

11 PM, his workday over, Justin dragged into the Loft and to the fridge for a drink. He opened the door, “Shit,” pulled the lunch bag out and set it on the counter. 

 

* * * * *

Daphne stood in her doorway, pajamas and curlers. Justin stayed in the hall.

“You’re sure you don’t need it tonight?” he asked.

“Like this is my coolest Clubbing look. Any other dumb questions?”

“Is the owner’s card in the glove compartment?”

“Where ELSE would it be? Now GO. And have a good time,” she yawned.

“Thanks, Daph,” Justin twirled her car key ring on his finger and left.

 

* * * * *

In the Break Room, Brian sat with a muscle mag and viewed a bizarro world:

\- Mom at the range, lit cigarette dangling while he flipped big greasy burgers, fat home fries, then stirred chunks of bacon in a vat of beans; “Marine Salad’s just about done. Grab your plates.”

\- Slash tacking up a new center-fold; “EVERYTHING’s Marine Salad,” laughed at Mom’s smiley fuck-finger salute and “When you Honeys puttin’ up a BLACK woman?” 

\- Creet watching Dog read; “That the new one?” “Garden Issue,” Dog flashed a page. “That is beautiful. Hey. Save me that page when you’re done.”

\- Tank fingering his shirt front and bitching to Torch; “Fucking button’s falling off. We got any wire left?” “Naw, but we got that sewin’ kit for real bad cuts,” Torch went to a First Aid box on the wall. 

Chinc appeared in the open doorway. “Ozark’s coming in on Five,” and to Brian, “Slick, somebody here to see you,” then he disappeared.

 

* * * * *

Justin watched Chinc rejoin a tiny Asian woman in a nurse uniform, smiled wide when he saw Brian coming his way, Tank and Slash donning gloves and closing behind him.

Brian met Justin with a mix of surprise and excitement. “What’re you doing here?”

“You forgot this?” Justin lifted the bag.

Brian swiveled back, yelled, “Tank. I’m going out for a few minutes.”

“Don’t get lost, Slick” Tank tapped his wristwatch, saw Brian say a few low words to Justin. Past them, Chinc spoke low to his smiling mate. Tank paused then. Something too similar in the closeness. The looks. He shook it off when Brian turned to leave and Justin followed. Had a truck to unload before Marine Salad got cold.

 

* * * * *

“Slick?” Justin chuckled as he followed Brian down the outer steps.

“I’ll give you fair warning. It ranks with the Age Card.”

Justin silenced and nodded. 

They threaded parked trucks and cars to the last row where front lot lighting faded to near none and semi-trailers blocked view of the warehouse. Brian opened the Vette trunk, pulled a folded blanket and flared it open into the bed of a neighboring pickup.

Justin quickly looked around. “What are you doing?”

Brian stepped on the rear bumper, swung his long legs over the tailgate, stood in the bed and offered a hand. “Ever hear of a tailgate party? The bed’s made, and now that the tail’s here…” Brian’s hand beckoned again.

Justin handed his bag up, then climbed aboard. “Are you sure some breeder with a deer rifle won’t take offense?”

“It’s not deer season,” Brian dropped to a crossed legged seat, pulled Justin down beside him and into a deep kiss hidden behind the cab. “Lunch was never this exciting at Vangard.”

“This is about as exciting as it’ll get, too,” Justin unfolded the bag, took out a sandwich and passed it over, eyes still roaming. “I’m not fucking out here. Where you work.”

“No sense of adventure?” Brian took a bite.

“No SENSE?” Justin countered, set a bottle of water between them, “I didn’t come out here to get you into trouble. I just wanted to see how things were going.”

“Well…” Brian finished another bite, shrugged, “They’re fashion impaired, but they cook, sew, read Good Housekeeping and talk about fucking as much as sports…so in some respects, they’re better queers than I am,” he gave a cheeky grin, drank some water.

Justin stretched on his back, arms supporting his head, knees up. “So they’re not so bad after all,” he smiled and scanned the sky. “I can’t believe you can see so many stars from here.”

Brian watched Justin’s face, bright even in the dark. He re-bagged his lunch remains and reclined beside Justin with enough body contact to start a rise, opted to check out the point of Justin’s interest. “There ARE a lot of stars.” 

Justin side-glanced a grin at Brian’s late-in-life discovery. Then felt Brian’s hand creeping up his leg. “No…I TOLD you.” He clasped Brian’s hand and trapped it on his chest.

Brian turned his head to Justin’s. “You expect me to go back with a hard-on?”

“Think about your mother.”

Little fucker, Brian groaned. “There’s always later. So how was YOUR day?”

“I went through some old drawings. REALLY old. From gradeschool. Made me think back to one of my high school teachers showing me a drawing I did in first grade. We were supposed to draw a man.”

“And you’ve been ‘drawing’ men ever since,” Brian smiled, got Justin’s huffy nudge.

“I didn’t think it looked that great, but she really raved about it. Told me that the norm for six-year-olds was a little round-headed stick figure. My man had a U-shaped face, dark hair, big oval eyes…hands with fingers,” Justin blushed at his own self-promotion.

“A detailed eye for men already…and at such a tender age.”

Justin pushed Brian hard enough to roll him onto his back. “It wasn’t about sex,” he chuckled, settled back and stared at the stars. “I remember always wanting to be an artist.” He smiled in that security, until he heard Brian’s voice, small and soft.

“I don’t ever remember wanting to be an ad exec.”

Justin’s brows knit in surprise and he turned to see Brian gazing at the stars. Silence passed until he ventured in a whisper, “Then why did you do it?”

“I had a little talent. An opportunity came, so I took it. Good money. And I was good at it. So I learned to hold onto it…gave me purpose,” his eyes dropped to some distant point, “That’s happened twice in my life now,” his eyes cornered briefly on Justin, then off again.

Justin caught it. Made him smile, move over Brian in a brief kiss and more urgent reality. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to work?”

“Fuck. Just when I thought I had you worn down enough for dessert,” Brian pushed himself up. He stepped over the tailgate, climbed down while Justin gathered up blanket and trash. Brian pitched the blanket into his trunk, the bag in the front seat, spun back to help Justin down and couldn’t pass on a better kiss. 

Six trucks away, Slash crouched low in his front seat, scowled at their shadowy union. Fags. Goddammed FAGS! He straightened up, grabbed his door handle to protest then realized he had a fifth of Rock and Rye in his other hand. Face twisting with the fact that outing them might out himself, he hunkered low again, watched them part and waited for an all clear.

* * *

Slash watches Brian return to the dock, Justin get into Daphne’s car and drive off. The untouched booze lands on the truck floor as the door slams shut. Hard.

Song: “Snake” by Tim Reynolds


	10. Magnum Load

Tank watched Slash hike between the large trucks in the lot, waited for him to climb onto the dock then grabbed his arm. “I fucking WARNED you-”

“I wasn’t drinking,” Slash jerked his arm free, “And I won’t take any shit while you cater to that fag,” Slash waved an angry arm at Brian coming with a load on the forklift. “The guy’s a fucking Linda.” He watched Tank twist a look back and return a stern eye. “How long you know me?” Slash moved into his face. “I tell you, I saw him in the lot suck-facin’ that blond kid who came for him. And I’ll tell you one MORE thing,” Slash pointed a finger an inch off Tank’s chest, “Don’t team me with him ‘cause I won’t work with any goddamn fag.” He spat on the floor and thundered toward the rest of the crew.

Brian stopped the fork at Tank’s raised Hold-it hand, cocked a brow.

Tank’s eyes iced. “We gotta get something cleared up before it gets outta hand. You like your blondes with two legs…or three?”

Brian’s jaw tensed before he grim-smiled, “That question wasn’t on the application.”

“What if it was?” Tank’s eyes narrowed.

“I’d answer…that’s MY business.”

Tank’s face heated, eyes burned and he walked away raking a hand over his neck.

Brian exhaled a heavy breath, eyes tracking Tank down the dock to where Slash was ranting. And the others stared with a denial/animosity mix he could feel across the warehouse. Fucking breeders. No. Just fucking ignorant men. Brian raised his hand, smiled and waved. This is MY workplace, too.

He worked alone the rest of the night, Tank grunting minimal directions, the others radar-glancing him to avoid his space like quicksand. Brian sorted and stacked lumber, tossed a casual smile when he caught somebody’s stare. But his neck hair pressed against his collar on threat alert. And he thought about Justin at St. James, living that every day.

 

* * * * *

By morning, Brian awoke to the eerie sensation of movement nearby behind him. He twisted back quickly and startled Justin, dressed and disarming the alarm clock.

“It’s your day off,” Justin explained. “I thought you might want to sleep in.”

Brian refocused on Justin’s motive. “You’re not getting out of it.”

“I’m going,” Justin grumbled. “I thought I’d take the bus and go by myself. It’s hard enough without knowing you’ll be climbing walls in the waiting room.”

“I’ll survive outside in the car,” Brian flipped back the sheets and rolled to a stand, heard Justin clear his throat in tension mode.

 

* * * * *

Presby Hospital Main Entrance. Always busy as a bus station. Brian sat tapping his fingers on the Vette steering wheel. Seeing Justin’s grim face approaching, he leaned over and quickly opened the passenger door.

“You sat out here three fucking hours?” Justin seared.

“Two. One in administration.”

“I hate this fucking place,” Justin dropped like lead into the seat, slammed the door hard, smacked a hand on the dash.

“And it’s all my car’s fault,” Brian pulled into traffic.

Justin cracked a smile, slapped Brian’s thigh and leaned his head back. “The scan was okay, so they sent me for this nerve test. Poked a probe into the nerves up my arm to check for any disruption. It didn’t hurt much until they got up to my neck. Now I’ve got this fucking headache.”

“Did they find anything?”

“They ruled out carpal…think I stretched the nerve that runs over my right elbow. I’m supposed to keep the arm straight for a couple weeks. How the fuck can I work without bending my arm,” Justin perched his right elbow on the window ledge and rubbed his temple. “I HATE that fucking place.”

Brian reached over, took Justin’s forearm and eased it down. “Aside from paying off their student loans, some of them might actually be right.”

Brian relaxed. Nothing serious. Though not in Justin’s perspective.

 

* * * * *

In the Loft bedroom, Brian stood beside the bed to check on Justin, finally asleep on his right side, right arm stretched out, knees drawn up in a position that made him look tense and fragile. Brian edged the sheet over his exposed left shoulder and rested his hand on it a moment. Sorry. But we had to be sure.

Brian went to his office, booted up his computer then sat and rested his elbows on the desk, dropped his head into raised hands. Raked them over his face. Through his hair. He was tired. Frustrated. Working every second, for what. Now he had to cope with the inevitable backlash at Turner. Barely going through motions, he opened the WaveLight file then subfile Lightwave. Scrolled the work. The color graphic he’d created looked impressive; the copy crisp; details of past campaigns clear. Typo. Who the fuck misspells “the”. He corrected it, took the WaveLight rewriteable disc from his tower and opened the disc tray in prep to save the new version.

A disc was in the tray. Brian set WaveLight aside, lifted out and read Project 3. One of Justin’s. Curious, he replaced the disc and opened the drive. Error. Application Not Found. He ejected the disc, checked it. Lots of info there. He walked it to Justin’s system and fired it up. In the wastebasket, several used discs. On the desk, scrap paper error notes on an open manual, a yellow highlighted tech support number with the long distance area code violently circled several times in pen.

Brian tried the disc in Justin’s computer. No luck. He smiled at the sheet-covered body. We’ll make it work. Brian lifted the manual, frowned. Too intense. Might as well start from square one. He sifted through a disorganized pile, shook his head - how the fuck does anybody WORK like this – finally located the Program Installation disc.

It took a minute to uninstall; longer to reinstall. Brian went to the bar, poured a Beam to kill the wait and stood sipping, watching the screen. Done. He found a new disc - fucking sadist who designed the wrapper – placed it in the tray, selected Program 3 and burned a new copy - Let’s try this fucker now – opened the drive; select; enter.

His eyes widened when WaveLight’s boring site appeared onscreen. Soft but upbeat music began as WaveLight morphed into the font he’d created for Lightwave. He quick-glanced Justin, downed the volume and watched WaveLight separate into two words that ghosted and floated to align as Lightwave in slowly intensifying blue on a dark sky background until it flashed bright white that melted into a pale blue screen of his logo and copy. Images appeared as a man’s voice – sounded like Scott - introduced the concept.

Brian downed his drink in a gulp, watched and listened to the treatment of his work. The visual poetry of EyeConic images dissolving into each other…the stark, hard one-over-the-other stacking of his planned Brown Athletics Man-For-All-Seasons campaign…the clinical dissection of BioGen.

A digital video in light and movement without gimmick feel. Not to sell an idea. Or achievement. To sell Brian Kinney.

Brian took long breaths to ease the pressure near his eyes.

He quietly moved to the bed, saw Justin’s right arm bent up, hand against his chin in mindless slumber. Brian took Justin’s wrist, straightened the arm with easy motion and lingered a soft kiss on his temple.

Then he carefully shut all the doors except the one near the bathroom. He stood in that doorway, eyed the pieces of neglected stretcher material, went down the stairs and walked with renewed world-by-the-balls swagger back to his office. 

 

* * * * *

Unable to sleep any longer, Justin dragged out of bed and leaned on the doorframe. Brian immediately appeared and gripped his arm.

“I’m okay,” Justin rubbed the remains of his headache, “Just laid in bed too long. And I have to finish a project,” he kissed Brian’s lips and thudded down the steps.

“At four AM?” Brian followed, watched Justin case his work area. “You should stop keeping my hours and live like a normal person.”

Justin was preoccupied with his papers. “What happened here. I had this all in order.”

ORDER? “I confess,” Brian closed from behind, cupped his hands on Justin’s shoulders, “I reinstalled your program. Project 3’s working now.”

“Now WHY didn’t they tell me that in the FIRST...” until the words sank in, and he turned to face Brian “You saw it?” with bit-lip trepidation.

Brian held Justin’s shoulders and drew close. “It was...as Daphne would say...awesome.”

“Really?”

“It always amazes me. How good you are. At everything.”

“I have a good influence,” Justin whispered.

They kissed briefly then Brian said low, “If you’re available, I could use some help on Brown.”

Justin lit like noon sun. First time Brian had ever asked for his help on a proposal.

 

* * * * *

Brian opened his eyes, saw 3 PM on his digital clock, then Justin rustling on the far side of the bed. A ritual separation to avoid waking each other during daylight sleep.

Before Brian could shift against Justin’s back, Justin rolled to face him, arm sliding around Brian’s waist under the sheet. “Hey,” he smiled, “We’re both off today. And I don’t wanna see you NEAR your computer.”

“Don’t worry,” Brian kissed him, “I’ve got the whole day planned. You know what’s first. Second, we get the routine shit out of the way-”

*****At Debbie’s, Brian surfed the net while Debbie helped Justin with their laundry. “Bri-an,” Justin huffed. “It’s not MY computer,” Brian grinned. Debbie sniped, “Leave him there. He can’t separate anyway,” until Justin’s “You FELL for that?” opened her eyes two ways. 

“-then dinner, definitely NOT at the Diner-”

*****At Michael and Ben’s, while all grazed through a course of wine, weeds and seeds, Brian and Ben talked abs, pecs and protein; Michael and Justin had Rage against a horde of immortal homo-cidal cops.

“- visit a few friends -”

*****At Babylon, Brian hauled Justin onto a dance platform to demonstrate a hot kiss in motion for the patrons. Few really paid attention or cared. They’d seen it before. In the Back Room, Brian’s “See anything you like?” got Justin’s sultry, “Yeaaah.” And they traded blowjobs before closing time. 

“- then there’s some unfinished business.”

*****Scott’s sleek male Trick d’Soir awoke to a car engine, hustled out of bed, looked through the balcony railing out the large window then quickly returned and shook Scott’s shoulder. “Scott.” “Hunh?” “Somebody’s stealing your truck.” “I loaned it to a friend,” Scott resettled to sleep. “At three o’clock in the MORNING?” Trick checked outside again, “Never mind. He left a Corvette.”

Truck parked in a field near Scott’s house, futon mattress in the bed, Brian and Justin stayed dressed against the night cool. 

Justin on his right side, twisted a look at the stars. “Just couldn’t give up the fuck-in-a-truck idea, could you?”

Brian, reclining at Justin’s back, worked his own jeans down to free his stiff cock. “They must’ve called this a bed for a reason. And any later in the year we’d have to douse in mosquito repellant.” Brian stripped a condom packet, sheathed himself, saw Justin bend his arm to undo his pants. “Keep it straight,” Brian pushed Justin’s right arm out.

Justin smiled at the sky, felt Brian tug down his waistband. “I could get used to this.”

“Having me drop your pants?” Brian marveled at how starlight fluoresced Justin’s skin.

“No,” Justin lightly slapped his hand. “The nights when you’re off and we’re up…and nobody ELSE is…it’s like we’re the only two people on earth.”

Busy as he’d been, Brian hardly noticed that all his recent sex dynamics involved only Justin. But he couldn’t recall missing anything. Except for the double, when they touched only through a note on the fridge. Brian’s cock stretched solid at the thought of that day’s denial. He lubed its length, wiped his fingers on a hand towel and placed the towel near Justin’s erect cock, copped a stroke as he kissed Justin’s neck. “Right now, we ARE the only two people on earth.” He aimed his cock, probed Justin’s crack until his cockhead found a little well. A light prod to film the lube, then Brian eased in. Rolled his eyes shut. Exhaled a heated breath. Fuck, this mellow slide felt so good.

Justin’s moan faded to a long breath as he felt Brian’s body mold like a warm blanket on his chilled skin, shaft hard and easing deep, locking them together. No intense fury tonight. He felt Brian’s head loom over his shoulder, reached up to touch his cheek but had to kiss. Had to. 

Then they settled down motionless…stretching the calm before urgency kicked in. Justin glanced at the stars, thought of a time when he only dreamed they’d be like this. Lips in Justin’s hair, Brian sifted his fingers through the locks and tried to pinpoint when never-enough became attached to a face.

 

* * * * *

Two fast days led back to Turner. Brian anticipated a few tests and wasn’t denied.

He found a pink tee shirt hand-markered: Official White-Collar Fag Uniform in his lunch bag, left it on the table with a note. Later, Dog read aloud, “Thanks, but I have to decline. It clashes with my eye color,” and laughed with Creet until they were hushed by looks from Mom and Torch.

Brian checked Tank’s assignment roster: the teammate line beside his name was x-d out.

Tank pointed to a Mt. Everest woodpile, “We need this broke down before lunch.” Brian held a remark and silently worked until he was sweat-drenched and ready to kill. Creet passed with a low, “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.” Brian smiled, “Should it make that much difference?” And Creet moved on before anyone saw them.

Brian assessed his situation. Consider them enemies and play THEIR game – or consider them a challenge, and let them play HIS.

 

* * * * *

Three days passed. No sleep THIS morning. Justin slipped on a clean shirt and jeans, stood in the bedroom doorway to admire the real Brian Kinney - dressed in Armani, seated at his computer with an open magazine and checking another company website. Justin quietly approached Brian’s desk, leaned down on crossed arms. “What time’s the interview?”

“I have to be in Cleveland at ten o’clock. Don’t bend your arm,” Brian powered his set off, rolled the magazine, came around the desk and headed toward the table.

“You know what your passion is?”

“A hot night with a great ass,” he swat Justin’s rump.

“Taking chaos, finding order in it,” Justin followed Brian to the table spread with folders, “…and making it work.” 

“Are you reading psych books in your spare time?” Brian packed his briefcase.

“Just you,” Justin pressed to Brian’s back, circled arms around his waist and hugged.

Brian felt Justin’s stiff cock, shut his briefcase. “Now you KNOW I don’t let anybody fuck me before an interview,” Brian’s smile faded, “That usually comes afterwards.”

“They won’t resist you,” Justin ran his hands up and down Brian’s arms. “Mm. You’re really getting hard.”

“We’ll take care of that when I get back.”

“Your arms.”

“A little side benefit…” Brian drifted, “…of carrying an extra load every night.” Then he saw Justin’s arms circle his waist again, “And keep that arm down or I’ll tie it to your dick,” he unwound Justin’s right arm then lifted his case and turned to face Justin.

Justin noticed a folder on the table, snatched it up. “You forgot one.”

“I’m leaving my planned proposals here. Neville likes to steal ideas, and if they want MINE, they’ll have to take ME first,” he planted a quick kiss on Justin’s lips. “Now get some sleep.”

Justin watched Brian leave. His smile left as well. Neville Agency. Big, high turnover, often unethical, and far away. 

 

* * * * *

Late afternoon, Justin and Daphne stood at a bookstore magazine rack – Daphne reading a glamour rag, Justin clutching six mags in his left arm and still hunting.

“Heavy reading. Is that why you look so beat?” she fished while fingering the bindings of Fortune, Pittsburgh, New Yorker, GQ, Sport, Selling Power.

“Brian’s building a new client list. He looks at all the ads and if he sees one that really sucks, he researches the company and works up a proposal. I save him some time by screening them first and marking the pages,” Justin smiled back proudly.

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Daphne’s face twisted.

Justin stopped picking, turned with a sallow tone, “Yeah. Like he’s got two full-time jobs, only one doesn’t pay anything, and the other one is wearing him down.” Justin dropped his eyes, shook his head. “I’m not getting paid while I’m off…I don’t wanna be a third job.”

“Oh that is so stupid,” Daphne rolled her eyes, “As your best friend, I’m allowed to say that. So what’s he gonna do when he needs to talk or…you know. Dial up Mikey?”

Justin barely held back a laugh.

“Good. We agree,” Daphne smugly smiled. “Now that THAT’S solved…” Daphne opened to a page in the glamour mag and held it beside her face. “I’m thinking of dying my hair. Honest opinion.”

Justin looked at Flaming Red and laughed loud enough to attract attention before raising a hand to his face, “Daph, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she smiled, “If you’d said it looked great, I’d’ve REALLY been worried.”

 

* * * * *

When Justin entered the Loft and stopped at Brian’s desk, he saw Brian’s open briefcase. Past the bedroom doorway, a still form in bed under the sheet. Justin grit his teeth as the bag crackled despite his care in removing newspapers and periodicals. To clear a spot, he moved a sheet of paper that got his interest. A formal letter of resignation to Turner, not yet dated. In the briefcase, a Neville Agency folder. He opened it. A newhire info packet. Brian nailed it, Justin smiled. Until he realized that Brian hadn’t waited up to share the news.

Justin crept into the bedroom, sat on the floor, folded his arms so he could lean on the ledge and watch Brian sleep. On sudden thought, he relaxed his right arm down. Fuck it, he decided, angled his forearm along Brian’s to touch without waking. The most fanfare he could muster...to celebrate a victory equal to defeat. 

 

* * * * *

Brian shut off his jarring alarm, swung out of bed, saw Justin gasp, shot “Fuck!” and recoiled his legs inches from mashing Justin. More concerned than crass, “What the FUCK are you doing on the floor? Are you all right?”

“I must’ve dozed off,” Justin rubbed an eye, “Just a little stiff.”

Brian stepped over Justin’s prone body and gripped an arm to help him onto the bed. “Next time get a head start and make it to the mattress. That WASN’T on my favorite-ways-to-top list. Lie back.” Brian pivoted Justin’s legs up. “What were you doing?”

“Thinking,” Justin stared with gravity, “Don’t sign with Neville. They’re everything you said you don’t want. They’ll pick your accounts, and have you on the road so much, it wouldn’t even pay to relocate.”

Brian exhaled at the floor, sat against Justin’s hip and rubbed Justin’s hand. “I have five days to decide. It wouldn’t be as mundane as Turner…with more money.”

Justin twined his fingers around Brian’s. “Does that mean you’re giving up? On WaveLight?”

“Once the pieces are in place, I’ll give them my best shot. But I like to have another option.” Brian kissed him, “I’ll use it only if I need it. Now I have to get ready for work. Don’t. Worry.”

Justin smiled to lighten the mood, “Why should I? You’re finally working in a place where nobody’ll hit on you.” Something about Brian’s distant eyes, no flip comeback. “Don’t tell me you found somebody in the closet.”

Brian eyed steady, “Nobody on my shift…is in the closet.”

“Brian?” Justin’s eyes questioned.

“The question came up,” he smiled, “I never denied it, never will.”

“Oh god,” Justin ran his hand up Brian’s arm.

“These aren’t high school kids. They’re men who understand consequences. But I’ve gotten to know them a little better,” Brian looked off.

“They’re breeders, and they hate us,” Justin touched Brian’s face to get him back.

“They’re men. And so are we. Once they realize I won’t run away or whine, the kid games will wear thin. Turner won’t be my life. But how I deal with it may make a big difference for the next man…who thinks he has to hide who he is, to live the life he wants.” Brian kissed Justin, glanced at his clock. “Fuck. I have to fucking leave soon,” he muttered to his rising dick.

Justin swiveled to a seat and pushed Brian back on the bed. “This’ll only take a few minutes. I already made your lunch.”

Brian reeled in the pleasure of Justin’s warm throat pulling him inside. “I’ll pass on the shower. Take your time.” He swam his fingers through Justin’s messy hair, over his shirted shoulder, sight-checked his right arm relaxed at his side. Even left-handed, Justin was incredible.

 

* * * * *

That night at Turner, Mt. Everest sat outside in the rain. 

Tank directed Brian, “Get that inside before it soaks.”

“Why’s it out there?”

“Somebody got the directions wrong,” Tank shuffled away.

Brian’s jaw tensed. But if he cut loose and walked out, more would be lost than gained. 

 

* * * * *

Justin sat at his desk and turned a magazine page. Shook his head, “This color looks like dogshit.” He scribbled on a packet of post-notes, ripped off and tacked it at the top of the page. He leaned back for a break, exhaled loudly and ran his hands over his face. Looked at 2 AM on the digital clock, a note on his computer: 3rd S. 11P-730A Lunch 3A.

He returned to the magazine, flipped a page hard but looked past it in thought while loosely tapping his pen like a drumstick on the open page. In his mind…the day Hobbs shoved him against a wall. And Daphne was there for him. The day four students hassled him at the front gate. And Brian, there to pick him up, shut them down.

Justin tossed the pen on the desk and grabbed his cell phone.

 

* * * * *

At Daphne’s Justin stood in the hall at the door. A teddy-bear pajama’d arm reached through the crack and wordlessly dangled keys.

“Thank you!” Justin snatched them.

By the time her hand completed to two listless good-bye waves and withdrew, Justin was already down the stairs.

 

* * * * *

Creet and Chinc teamed with Torch on a build-up, watched Brian dripping wet, hauling armloads to a growing pile of studs inside.

“He’s been at it steady for over three hours,” Chinc said low.

“He shouldda kept his mouth shut,” Creet breathed out, wanting to help but not wanting to be the first one.

 

* * * * *

Out front, Justin cased the open overhead door, climbed the outside ladder onto the dock, stopped at the No Drivers Beyond This Point sign and searched for Brian. He saw Chinc’s and Torch’s eyes flick toward him then away. They looked too busy stacking studs to bother with him, so he crossed the white safety line and walked toward them.

 

* * * * *

Out back with light from the open garage door barely touching the pile, Brian pulled eight-foot studs. The rain had stopped, but the wood was wet and stubborn to handle.

Scott called low from the shadows beside the open door, “Kinney.”

Brian paced over. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Heard a rumor and came to check it out.”

“That we have a new gay work area?” Brian smarted, waved widespread arms at the woodpile. “I can handle it.”

“Stop at the ranch after work.”

 

* * * * *

Inside, Tank charged at Justin with a gruff, “HEY! Can’t you READ? Get off the dock NOW!”

“I was just looking for Brian Kinney,” Justin smiled, figured a name would help.

Slash stood away from the lumber pile. “What’s the matter, Sweetheart? You don’t trust him with the BOYS?”

A chorus of “Oooooooo”s echoed, and Justin’s mouth opened as he stared speechless at the team massing near the lumber pile – some for humor, some for spite.

Tank stopped in front of him. “You and your fag buddies have no business here.”

Hearing the loud chorus, Scott and Brian moved to the open rear doorway, “What the hell…,” saw Justin facing a wolf pack, “They’ll beat the shit out of him,” Scott started in, but Brian held him back.

“Wait. Let him go.” Brian stepped closer, eyes radiating support.

Justin swallowed. Stay calm. Just the facts. “Brian pulls his weight around here as good as you ALL do. He probably never asked for your help, but I’m sure he never turned down anybody who needed his.” He saw Creet and Chinc’s eyes drop, eyed Tank, “What’s there to gain or prove with threats and insults?” then panned the group. “I didn’t come here to cause trouble, or stop you from doing your jobs. I came here…to have lunch…with someone who works here,” he took a breath, “Now…can anyone please tell me where Brian is?”

Slash moved forward, “Go back to the Burgh. You’re on the wrong side of-”

“Hey! Who made YOU Foreman?” Tank shut him down with a look.

Brian patted Scott’s back, whispered, “He’s still alive,” and strode inside.

“Justin!” Brian called. Eyes focused on him and Justin smiled relief when Brian stood beside him. “I see you all met Justin,” Brian grinned. “The one who did the painting?” He watched confused exchanges. “The painting in Dave’s office.”

Justin said low, “WHAT painting?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Brian whispered.

Creet soul-eyed, “YOU did that? It’s beautiful, man. I took a picture.”

And Tank bellowed, “It ain’t lunch time, so anybody who doesn’t want docked, get back to work,” he turned on Brian, “That goes for you, too,” then to Justin, “And no visitors past the white line. Got it?”

“Yes, Sir,” Justin gulped, watched Tank tromp to the main build-up area.

“I’ll meet you out front in fifteen minutes,” Brian called over a shoulder, watched Justin nod and leave.

Slash blocked Brian. “If you think your fucking little show-”

“Why don’t you decide who you want to hate – yourself, me or her,” Brian snapped, left him mute and marched out the back door past men in slow motion digesting the scene.

 

* * * * *

Outside, Brian looked for Scott but didn’t see him. So he stacked three studs, lifted the front end to drag them inside, halted when Chinc passed him and lifted the back end.

“You all still look alike to me,” Chinc nodded a move-it toward the door. 

While they carried their load in, Creet went out to help.

Inside, Tank watched Chinc and Brian drop their stack and head outside. He stopped Brian with “Hey. Slick,” walked over and stood with a dead expression and low tone. “Don’t get the idea that things’ll change much.”

“Justin almost died from a hate-bashing. Do you know how much it took for him to stand in front of all of you…just to get an answer to a simple question? You’re the leader, and I don’t expect anything to change until YOU do,” Brian moved on.

Tank raked his neck with a hand. He didn’t want the name Fag-lover. Was it worth selling out fairness? The work was behind, the men were pissed…and a Tinkerbell showed more guts in three minutes than the Foreman had shown in three days. Tank lumbered center-dock and shouted, “Boys, stop what you’re doing and get that timber inside,” watched them silently file out, except for Torch.

“It’s against my religion,” Torch drawled.

“I didn’t ask you to PRAY with him,” Tank snarled with renewed authority and pulled his shoulders back for the first time in days. I ain’t a fag-lover. But I AM in goddamned charge.

 

* * * * *

As Brian drove the Vette along the dark access road, Justin stared ahead.

“I had no idea it was this bad.”

“Yeah, you did,” Brian smiled low.

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I only-”

“Justin,” Brian pulled the car over and stopped, “They would have come around eventually. You just gave me a little extra firepower. Fucking best Drama Queen moment you ever had, too,” Brian wrapped an arm around Justin and kissed his cheek. “There’s only one open place around here…and it’s worse than the Diner.”

“I didn’t really come for lunch. I just didn’t want you to be alone.”

Brian gathered him into a gloom-lifting kiss then hug.

Justin added a tack-on kiss. “What painting were you talking about?”

Idling up the road, Chinc’s wife slowed her car when her high-beams caught the Vette and she recognized Brian. She stopped alongside and rolled down her window; he did the same.

“Meestah Sleek, you got problem?” she looked worried.

“No,” Brian smiled, “He’ll be okay in a couple minutes.” He glanced at Justin, scrunched down in his seat, hands over his eyes, laughing to nearly breathless.

 

* * * * *

Scott’s front porch overlooked a view of dawn trees in the new green of late spring. Both in light jackets against the morning chill, Scott faced-off Brian at the railing.

“Why the fuck did you out at the dock? That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I never said I’d be a fake breeder.”

“I said low profile.”

“What difference does it make?” Brian pulled an envelope from his jacket. “I kept my end.”

Scott cooled, took and opened the envelope, sped through two pages of print while Brian clarified.

“It’s in the log. From what I saw, your hardwood costs are up because you’ve got an Independent skimming. Half the time, the manifests are hand-corrected when the load doesn’t fit so unless you’re doing loading AND billing, you won’t catch it. They’re smart, though. They steal only one pallet at a time…and sell it right back to you.”

“It’s a wonder the men missed it.”

“You know the Dock Rules. Don’t admit to nothin’…don’t volunteer for nothin’…and nobody follows the last one.”

Scott stared hard, “Any of our men involved?”

“I’ll guess just one. And I don’t think he even knows it.” Brian leaned on the railing. “Maybe Dave should go down and work the dock once in awhile instead of just signing off what crosses his desk. If he had their respect, somebody might’ve caught it. Now what have you got for ME?”

Scott folded the log, shoved it in his jacket pocket, “I met with WaveLight’s CEO. They’re keeping his replacement hushed until the new man has a chance to give notice to HIS boss. But I used my usual charm.”

“Of course,” Brian grinned, watched Scott pull his wallet.

Scott fished a business card, handed it over. “Klaus Rheinholdt. I had lunch with the cheapskate. Told him I’m looking to switch agencies, but not unless he can promise me better than ho-hum coverage. He’s forty, no-shit and hungry. Every new guy has to make his space.”

“Thaaaat’s what I’m counting on,” Brian smiled at the card.

“Side point…don’t expect him at the Baths,” Scott leaned back on the railing beside Brian, “So. If you end up staying on awhile, you think you can hold up against the Ladies Of The Evening?”

“I WONDERED where that came from. They call themselves The Boys now,” Brian silent-chuckled, went serious, “Some attitudes defy change, but most of them are all right. Good men have a lot in common as far as respect and tolerance – if a man stands up for himself without attacking THEM.” He motioned, “How’s the arm?”

“Aside from marring my flawless image…” he ignored Brian’s eye-roll, “…better.”

“The cops have no leads on the shooter,” Brian met Scott’s don’t-go-there stare, “Let me put it this way. If that kid dies, it becomes a murder investigation. With drugs involved, it could escalate to a whole new ball game, and SOMEbody will break down. Do you wait until they find YOU? Or do you call the shots NOW?”

“I should’ve let you stand, Kinney,” Scott smiled wicked but nice.

“You always told me you had a good team. I’m already one up on you with mine,” Brian responded. He watched Scott think, stood up. “You COULD offer me some coffee.”

“We could cook up a lot more than that,” Scott flashed his all-a-head-full smile.

“Thanks for the offer, but I have breakfast waiting at home,” Brian left the rail.

“That’ll long be one of my regrets.”

“That I passed on a fuck?”

“That he met you first.”

Brian studied Scott’s eyes, nodded, skipped down the steps and left Scott with more serious thoughts.

 

* * * * *

Justin lay on his right side, watched the bathroom doorway and drummed his fingers on the mattress until Brian emerged in jeans, shirtless and barefoot.

“Brian, what’re you doing up? You’re gonna be tired as shit later.”

“And you’re probably sore as shit,” Brian snatched a tube off his nightstand, climbed across the bed

“It was my idea to rough it, and it was worth it,” Justin winked, started to roll back until Brian’s hand trapped his hip.

“Hold still. This should work,” Brian squeezed a dab on a finger, tossed the tube in front of Justin, pulled the sheet down past Justin’s thighs and lifted a cheek.

Justin took and studied the tube, grumped “For diaper rash?” then flinched when Brian fingered his tender hole. 

Done, Brian reached for a tissue to clean off, pulled the sheet up again. “We use it for scrapes and chafing on the dock,” Brian reclaimed the tube, “And if that’s not good enough for you, tough guy…” he leaned near Justin’s ear, “…there’s always iodine,” he smiled, kissed Justin’s sullen lips and left the room.

Justin sighed, got out of bed and into sweat pants, trudged down the steps and intercepted Brian walking a coffee to his desk. Justin took the cup from Brian’s hand, sipped. “What are you working on?” he viewed the monitor, handed back the cup. 

“An agency called West Ohio Images,” Brian sipped, set the cup on the desk, “And a little better good morning,” he turned Justin to face him and they kissed while the phone rang. Once. Twice.

Justin broke off with “You better get that. It might be a job offer” through a third ring.

Brian was too late to beat the answering machine’s staticy pickup: “Fuck you, Kinney. AND your blond sidekick.” Click.

Justin’s skin prickled, “That’s a threat.” He latched onto Brian’s arm and pleaded, “Don’t go in tonight. Call off. Could you tell who it was?” 

His brow wrinkled at Brian’s broad smile.

 

* * * * *

In a Pittsburgh high-rise lobby, Scott closed and pocketed his cell phone and read an Attorney Law Offices placard of names posted on the wall beside the elevators.

 

* * * * *

Back at the Loft, Brian was side-by-side with Justin on the bed.

“So that’s the whole Turner deal,” Brian finished.

Justin wasn’t happy. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

Brian briefly touched an index finger to Justin’s lips, “I agreed not to share it with anyone who might accidentally say something at the Diner, or on the dock.”

“Nice,” Justin deflated. “So Scott was checking up on me to see how much I’d spill.”

“You say what’s on your mind. Though I would strongly recommend you throw a minute between what you think and what you say sometimes…Debbie? And the laundry?” Brian watched Justin smile, hands over his face. “As for Scott tracking you…” Brian waited for Justin’s eyes to meet his, “That was for real.”

“I’m not interested,” Justin rubbed Brian’s arm. “Is that why he left that weird message?”

Scott’s version of thank-you when he had to admit anyone was right before he realized it first. “I think he was hinting there’d be a delay on our track lights,” Brian smiled to himself, ninety-percent sure of Scott’s decision. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize his voice right away. That IS him on Project Three, isn’t it?”

Justin smiled, “I needed somebody who sounded like you. Mikey was too shrill…Ben and Vic too flat…I sound too much like me…”

“I wonder why THAT is.”

Justin smacked Brian’s thigh. “You know what I mean.”

“At least you left out Emmett and the rest of the girls.”

“Actually, Mel was too busy with her case,” Justin relished Brian’s glare, “So I made a deal with Scott.”

Brian’s jaw twitched. “Care to share?” 

 

* * * * *

After Justin left to complete his deal, Brian displayed WaveLight’s site on his monitor

His eyes widened. He pulled his chair closer. Read the banner again. After the blah-blah CEO farewell message, the line he had waited for:

Klaus E. Rheinholdt will officially resume responsibilities…

Monday. In three days. Two weeks ahead of schedule.

Brian set the Brown Athletics folder on his desk, picked up his phone and speed-dialed.

“Leo Brown, please. Brian Kinney,” he turned to a statistics page, tapped his fingers on it, leaned back. “Leo. We need to update your campaign. I see there’s a sales slump on off-season products and I think we can offset with increased sales on the in-season lines. When can we meet to discuss the new proposal?” He smiled, grabbed a pen and jotted notes. “Tuesday would be fine. By the way, I’ve left Vangard. Not a problem. It’s in your contract. I’ll look forward to it. I’ll see you then,” he smiled, touched his disconnect button and speed dialed another number.

I’ll be with a new Agency by then, Brian resolved. Let’s hope it’s not Neville.

He dialed a familiar number.

 

* * * * *

Cynthia paged through a campaign proposal, snatched her ringing phone. “Vangard. Cynthia speaking.” Her eyes widened. She quickly panned the passers-by outside Brian’s former office windows, lowered her voice and faced a wall. “Anything.” Her face drained. “Tell them WHAT? I can’t...okay. Okay,” she grabbed a pen, notepad, wrote. “Three. Wednesday,” her frown became a smile, “No, YOU’RE the best. Bye.” She hung up still smiling, hand resting on the receiver to hold that last bit of connection. 

 

* * * * *

Clad in a short silk jacket, Scott stood alone on his Loft balcony and gazed at his estate. At the setting sun.

“Scott?” a svelte blonde woman in his oversized silk robe stepped out and joined him, “Don’t let me hold you up if he needs your help,” she snaked an arm around his.

“He knows what he’s doing, and he knew I’d have a guest,” he smiled at her and she hugged his arm, “Part of the deal.”

They both watched Justin, easel on the lawn beside the pond as he sat before his landscape canvas and dabbed paint dots wherever a copper glow touched the trees.

 

* * * * *

That night, Justin sat like a taut ball of apprehension on Brian’s desk chair, watching him don his work jacket, grab his lunch.

“Daph’s away for the weekend. If you won’t let me drive you in, I’ll RENT a car and come up,” Justin threatened.

Brian walked over until Justin’s head tilted way back to keep eye contact. “If you’re busy running the back streets at three in the morning, when will you have time to package Lightwave?”

“What?” Justin’s eyes widened.

Brian took a business envelope off his desk, stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Then a large envelope that he set on Justin’s lap. “All the specs are inside. I need it by Wednesday. Think you can do it?”

“Yeah,” Justin nodded excitedly.

“You haven’t even looked at it.”

“Yeah,” Justin repeated more firmly.

Brian had to lean low to kiss him. Then he was gone with his jacket, his lunch, and a letter of resignation.

 

* * * * *

Tuesday evening, Justin sat across from Brian with steak-salad-at-home.

“Brian,” Justin stopped picking through his plate, “You’ve already got enough client proposals to start your own agency. Why don’t you?”

Brian watched Justin’s eyes flicker between him and his salad. “It takes a lot of money to start up. And big-buck clients don’t throw thousands of dollars into an agency that’s not established.”

“I still have some tuition money left. Your half,” Justin focused on twiddling his fork in his plate. Preparing for the education speech. Silence. He looked up at Brian, leaning back in his chair, sporting that perturbing amusement smile. “What? You wanted another option. I’m just suggesting one.” 

“You would give it all up. On a gamble that I’m that good.”

“You already gave it all up,” Justin said to his plate, “Over an idea from some asshole…who had nothing to lose.”

Brian left his chair, walked over to Justin, took the fork from his hand. “You’re not supposed to bend that arm anyway.”

“Oh FUCK about the arm already,” Justin snapped as Brian pulled him to a stand, “It hasn’t bothered me all week.”

“Hey,” Brian lifted Justin’s chin to meet eyes, “It was MY call. MY decision, and it’ll work out,” Brian hugged Justin, kissed his hair and lightly stroked his neck. “Now let’s finish dinner or we’ll be late for dessert at Ben and Mikey’s. I think it’s tofu pie or green tea jello or some shit like that.” Brian smiled at the shiver from Justin’s chuckle.

Justin backed off with the bonding gaze of emotion his vocabulary held, but not Brian’s. So he said nothing. And Brian looked down with the same gaze for which no word had yet been invented.

 

* * * * *

Wednesday. Cynthia nervously glanced at 3:00 on her watch, back to Gardner finger-skimming an open folder on her desk. “I understand,” she smiled, closed the folder. “I’ve got...an important call to make.”

“This will only take a few more minutes,” Gardner opened the folder, paged, “Now where was I.”

Exasperated, Cynthia bit her lip, “Gardner...I REALLY have to go to the ladies room.”

“Oh?” he glanced up, then got it, “Oh. I’ll wait,” he attended to paging and missed her DAMN-it wince before she hurried out the door.

She idled past his assistant Lana on the phone, dashed down the hall to Gardner’s office, looked around for an all clear then went inside and shut the door.

 

* * * * *

WaveLight. Small building, major day. Hearing a “Yes?” response to her knocking, senior Ms. Ultimate Secretary opened Rheinholdt’s office door and leaned in. “There’s a Brian Kinney here to see about the job?” her face contracted and she shook her head.

“I wasn’t aware we had an opening,” he looked up from his computer. An imposing small man in Ralph Lauren, dark featured and intense like a mini Steve Jobs. 

“That’s what I told him, but he said he made a three-thirty appointment. I just got a strange call about him from Vangard Agency, too, so they knew he was coming. Someone probably forgot to write it down.”

In the front office, Brian left his seat, feigned a closer look at an Employee Of The Month picture near the hall and heard Rheinholdt’s firm but low-toned “Fax me his application. Don’t bother with a resume, I don’t have time for fiction. I’ll call you if I decide to see him. And I’d like more details of any future meetings. I DON’T like surprises.”

Brian took his seat again, watched Secretary go through her motions. Waited several minutes. Until she answered her phone, looked his way and said, “Mr. Kinney, Mr. Rheinholdt will see you now.” 

Brian knocked on the door, got the standard “Come in” and walked to the desk.

“Mr. Rheinholdt. Brian Kinney.” 

Rheinholdt motioned to a chair near his desk. “Just tell me why you’re here and what you have to offer.”

Right to business. Good. Brian sat, unzipped his portfolio on his lap. “WaveLight has a solid reputation with its clients. Most of your employees and agents have been together for fifteen years and they’re operating at a comfort level...but it’s not growing the business. Very much like West Ohio Images.”

Rheinholdt sat upright, smiled with suspicion, “You seem to know a little about me.”

Brian pulled the Brown binder, set it on the portfolio in his lap, “I know you’re not a complacent man, and I doubt WaveLight went outside for a successor as much as you came to them-” Brian glimpsed the Stock Market Report on Rheinholdt’s computer screen, “- because you know a growth opportunity when you see one. And so do I. WaveLight accounts are mostly small businesses with repeat renewal. My experience and connections include high-end accounts with larger budgets.”

“I don’t plan to disrupt the status quo this soon.”

“With profit opportunities available now?” Brian handed the binder to Rheinholdt. “I can deliver Brown as soon as you sign me on. They’re large, financially solid and ready for a change.”

Rheinholdt flipped through the binder, “Impressive,” looked more skeptical than enthused, “But I’m curious about this,” Rheinholdt set aside the binder, lifted and reread the application then eyed Brian. “With all your...experience...you’re a dock worker?”

That curiosity got me through the door, Brian coolly eyed back. “I’m not a complacent man either. I needed a job until the right one came available…and there’s no job I can’t do and do well. Turner Construction’s one-year contract with Vangard is almost up, and I know Scott Turner. You can let Vangard persuade him to extend with them, or offer a deal with an agent he trusts, who knows his company.

“I met Mr. Turner,” Rheinholdt volunteered, still skeptical. “But I would like to know- ” Rheinholdt leaned forward, “- why you left Vangard.”

Brian kept a poker face, straight eye. Rheinholdt could find out the truth anytime, maybe already knew. “I’d rather represent companies with products to sell – stable, long-term gains. Vangard showed preference to political agendas – high profile, but risky and unpredictable. You could say…our philosophies weren’t an ideal match.”

Rheinholdt pierced a long look. Brian never flinched. Rheinholdt eased off and lifted the binder. “I’ll review this and call you if I think we should meet further.”

Brian rose at the cue, removed a folder and set it on the desk before zipping his portfolio shut. “My business card and former client list are inside. I can see you’re busy,” Brian clutched his portfolio under his arm, tapped it with his free hand. “I also have a proposal for attracting new clients without disrupting the status quo, but I’ll hold that for now. Thank you for your time,” Brian courtesy nodded and walked out the door.

 

* * * * *

While his Secretary watched, Rheinholdt sat at his desk, scribbled a phone number from one page in Brian’s folder then removed the page. “You’re sure the call came from Vangard?”

“It’s still on my caller ID. They certainly went out of their way to say he was no longer employed there, but his work was satisfactory.”

“And what do YOU make of that?”

She shrugged, “They’re really out to get him?”

“Or they don’t want him working for a rival in their area. He had an idea of interest, but I want to know more about him,” Rheinholdt handed her the page. “I need a quick reference check. Don’t bother with Vangard, Turner or Brown.”

She nodded and left; he lifted his phone receiver and touch-toned the phone number for Leo Brown. 

 

* * * * *

Woody’s bar slowly populated as downtown quitting hour ticked on. Brian in a suit, Justin in a pullover and jeans, sat together at the bar.

“You gave it your best shot,” Justin stroked Brian’s back. “Maybe you should leave Turner off your next application.”

“I took a risk. It got his attention and opened a salary gap that I thought might interest him. Not to mention a potential account,” Brian smiled at Justin. “I didn’t just throw it on for laughs. Speaking of laughs,” Brian lifted his shot glass, “Here’s to my last glorious evening at Turner.”

Justin clicked his glass to Brian’s, they downed drinks in unison then Brian stood up and tossed a ten on the counter. “Tomorrow we toast to fucking Neville.” 

A cell phone rang. Several men dove for their pockets.

Brian pulled his cell, checked the display. “Fuck. Come on,” he grabbed Justin’s arm and towed him outside.

 

* * * * *

Brian dashed down the stairs, hunted up a vacant doorway, pressed into a corner and answered, “Brian Kinney.”

Justin stood guard on the sidewalk so passers strolled clear of the area. He clenched his hands, kept glancing at Brian hunched in private. This was worse than fucking Tech Support. Then he saw Brian pocket his cell and return expressionless.

“What happened?” Justin took his arm. Something happened. To someone.

Brian slowly smiled, “I’ve just been offered the job that didn’t exist.”

“You asshole,” Justin punched his arm. “That’s for scaring me.” Then he flung his arms around Brian’s neck and open-mouthed a kiss.

Brian broke off, rolled his forehead against Justin’s. “Let’s go celebrate.”

“Woody’s?”

Brian backed off, slowly shook his head no.

“Babylon?”

Another no.

“The Diner.”

 

* * * * *

Scott, lying half-dressed on his basement playroom bed, had a willing Tall Stud doing a striptease for him when they heard a car pull up outside. Stud peered through the small, high window. “Scott? Somebody’s stealing your truck.”

“Don’t worry about it. He leaves a Corvette…fucking waste when you think of the truck he could’ve had for that money.”

 

* * * * *

Tree lined field. Low sun. Armani and Levi mingled together on the truck seat.

In the bed on a futon mattress, wrapped in a blanket left from a tailgate party, Brian sat with his long legs dangling off the open gate and cushioned by mattress overhang, chin shouldered on Justin seated between his legs.

“This is so amazing,” Justin took a breath.

“Yeah,” Brian gazed at Justin, “It is.” He eased his hand from Justin’s waist to his cock and lazily teased. Kissed and licked his neck. Slid the blanket from Justin’s shoulder and layered kisses there until Justin’s head twisted up for one. Brian braced on his hands, brought his feet up and backed into the bed, cock rising.

Justin came to his knees facing Brian, moved between Brian’s splayed legs until Brian rose on his knees, bent forward, gently pressed a hand to Justin’s chest to signal him down on his back. Knees up, legs spread, Justin felt his shoulders on the tailgate, his head over the edge. He reached out and gripped the outer edges of the gate while watching tree shadows hang down over a sky-lake of sunset.

Brian kissed and nuzzled the triangle of pale hair around Justin’s cock. Lifted and caressed his balls with his tongue. Blew on the underside and mouthed until Justin moaned and his cock seeped. All the while floating his hands up and around Justin’s thighs. Up his hips to his chest.

Justin raised his head to see Brian, sweat-reflected sun coating him in a deep shade of gold. Strong arms wrapped around Justin’s thighs and slid him further into the bed. Head supported, Justin watched Brian flow over him and kiss each nipple, circling with his tongue until the charge made his cock throb. Justin plowed his hands through Brian’s hair. Dug a hand into his shoulder. Don’t make me cum. Not yet. Not yet. “With you,” he whispered.

Brian settled back on his knees, saw Justin’s little pleased smile. He took Justin’s arms and pulled him up until their bodies closed like a vice, lips, cocks together and arms enfolding. An inner moment. Before the power of sexual need fired too high. For Brian, it was getting close. He lifted Justin’s chin, kissed him and nudged him to turn around. Watched him sink to his forearms, form aglow in pale gold from long hair to raised hips. Condom. Lube. Position…into…fucking…goddamned…amazing.

Justin breathed out with a throaty tone. Expanding. Accepting…this pleasure…this union…this man. He felt Brian’s heated body drape over his back. Arms around his waist. Pulling him up to sit back into Brian’s lap, his legs outside Brian’s and sharing support, his back snug to Brian’s chest, Brian’s head dipping into his neck and feasting there as they started their slow ride.

Two shades of gold, bound in the fever of men’s passion, in the eye of the setting sun.

 

* * * * *

That night, Justin stood at the door for the customary good-bye kiss. Instead, Brian dangled his car keys in front of him.

“You’re driving, in case you want to join me for lunch.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“What’s okay for them is okay for us.”

Justin took the keys with a wide smile and opened the door.

 

* * * * *

Morning at Turner. Day-shifters swarmed in; The Boys gathered their light jackets and lunch boxes and drifted out. The only ceremony to Brian’s departure was Chinc’s casual “See ya,” hand-wave as he turned to the open overhead door and jumped off the dock.

Brian stood in that doorway and returned Justin’s wave from the Vette parked along the concrete median strip. Brian took a last back-glance at Hell in time to see Tank stop hands-on-hips beside him.

“So long, Slick. Maybe things’ll get back to normal around here -”

Brian raised a brow, Tank looked back, “- as soon as I find the mutherfucker who talked that idiot boss into helpin’ us out.”

Brian watched Tank stomp to Dave grilling Torch with “No, I think you’re doing it wrong” and Tank bellowing, “We ain’t doin’ it wrong…you’re just OBSERVIN’ it wrong.”

Brian quickly jumped from the dock and walked to the Vette, little smile growing wider with each step until his teeth gleamed in the rising sun. He opened the driver’s door, slid in still smiling.

“What are YOU so thrilled about?” Justin matched the smile.

“Dock Rule Number Four…Don’t give nothin’ you wouldn’t want back,” Brian started the car and kicked the clutch when he heard taps on his window. Creet. He rolled the window open and Creet’s large hand reached in.

“Good luck to ya,” Creet shook Brian’s hand. “When you’re schmoozin’ with the bigwigs? Maybe you could remind ‘em where their three-hundred-thousand-dollar homes came from,” Creet nodded proudly then walked away, across the median, into the lot where he stopped beside a pickup and unlocked its door.

Brian paused in deeper thought. “My Dad was a fucking asshole as a father...and I don't know if I'll ever forgive him for that,” Brian watched Creet take a moment to stand back and gaze at the sunrise. “But maybe in some tiny part of a different world...he might've been a helluva man."

“I’m pretty sure that’s the part of him in you,” Justin touched his arm.

Brian smiled back, “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” and geared into first.

 

* * * * *

In the Loft, Brian leaned against the door. “First order of ceremony,” he grunted through removing his boots, walked them to the kitchen trashcan and held them high for the loudest thunk when they hit bottom. Followed by the worn and filthy gloves.

“Bravo, oh former Queen of the Night,” Justin clapped. “And for MY act…I drop the Rage drawings at the Shop so Queen Novotny doesn’t throw a fit,” Justin ambled to his desk.

Brian raised his brows, amazed when Justin stooped over a haphazard tower of paper and went right to the file he needed.

Justin trooped back, “Later,” gave Brian a quick kiss, left and shut the door.

After another furrowed look at Justin’s mess, Brian sat at his own desk, opened the file drawer, set out the Turner and JT-BK Contract folders. He tackled Turner first, reviewed then fed each sheet to his shredder. The JT-BK folder. He read the copy of the Declaration Of Partnership form he’d filled out for the insurance. Served its purpose. Into the shredder. He held the Contract, smiled and removed the clip holding the pages together.

 

* * * * *

When Justin returned, he found the Loft empty and a note on the kitchen counter: Low on lube – Be right back – It’s your turn to do the laundry. B. 

Justin filled the laundry duffle in the bathroom, dragged it to the bedroom and did a lone-sock check around the bed. He smiled at the empty space where Brian’s boots and gloves normally sat, kicked the duffle down the steps and hiked to the kitchen for stray towels. Another empty space - the brown-paper-bag corner. He turned to the fridge door bare of notes. Everything related to Turner Lumber, gone.

On afterthought, Justin trailed to Brian’s office desk and opened the file drawer. A bolt hit when he saw a vacant space where their Contract sat. His eyes skimmed the other unrelated folders. Anxious, he checked the wastebasket. Empty. The shredder. Same. Didn’t mean anything unless...

Justin hurried to the bathroom wastebasket, looked in and felt as empty as IT was. Brian had dumped the trash. Everything.

Justin shuffled to the doorway overlooking his work area, sat on the top step, locked his hands around his knees, breaths heavy. He’d never had a car stolen. Or a house burn down. But somehow this feeling seemed a hundred times worse. Just a piece of paper, he told himself, leaned his head against the doorframe, closed his eyes to hold any stupid tears. A piece of paper for Turner. And Turner was over. 

Doesn’t change anything, he managed a smile. Doesn’t change anything at all.

 

* * * * *

When Brian got back, he saw Justin at his computer working on a Rage drawing. He set his bag on the counter, circled around back and rested his chin on Justin’s head. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Justin rubbed his head on Brian’s chin but kept eyes on his work.

“I need a shower and the sheets before I meet with Rheinholdt later. Care to join me?”

“In a little,” Justin kept drawing. “Can you drop me at the Diner on your way? I’m starting back today. Just a half-day. See how it goes.”

Brian dropped to a knee beside him, got a lackluster smile. “A little early, if my calendar reads right. Now would you mind filling me in on what happened between the time you left and the time I came back?”

Busted. Never very good at Brianesque opaque. Justin looked into his eyes and focused on the concern. Smile warming, Justin brushed his hand against Brian’s cheek. “No sleep and too much action. I’ll meet you at our usual spot,” he winked, added a kiss. Fuck the paper. If you wanted it gone, then so do I. 

Brian nodded, stood up and strode to the bedroom. He back-glanced Justin. Something not right. Then…fuck. A lot went down today. And a big hurdle later. He trotted up the stairs, passed his open closet and smiled at the suits he’d be wearing again. Fuck it felt good to be home.

 

* * * * *

Brian, in a suit, followed Justin to the Diner counter where they joined a variation on a football lineup. Debbie sat on the outside with Vic and Rodney on her right, Michael and Ben left. Five customers stood close behind Debbie. And Emmett was behind the counter, adjusting the antenna on a clunky small TV. More snow and static than sound. The camera closed in on the door number 1600 before moving to other news, and the strangers moved back to their tables.

Brian uttered, “That’s Turner’s address,” then loud to the group, “What was THAT all about?”

Emmett turned off the set, leaned on the counter. “Hard as it is to believe? Somebody came forward on the Adonis case.”

Michael swiveled to face Brian. “Yeah. They identified the gunman as a twenty-five-year old transient who tipped them off to a drug ring.”

Vic chipped in, “The cops staged an early morning raid. Caught a gang of folks red-handed.”

Brian swallowed hard, Justin squeezed his hand and Brian asked, “Where?”

“Sixteen-hundred Talbot,” Emmett said low as he rubbed Debbie’s hand, “Rita Montgomery’s place.”

Michael was somber, “I guess she found a way to supplement her income while Hunter was out of commission.”

Debbie, who sat mutely staring at the blank set, spoke quietly, not facing anyone, “I was just going over there again today,” she shook her head. “Anytime something like this happens…this thing at the Bathhouse…I worry about you boys getting hurt,” she bit her lip, “God only knows what I might have walked into…” she looked up, “…if it wasn’t for some angel…” and palmed the corner of an eye.

Michael rubbed her back, “It’s okay, Mom.”

Emmett clenched her hand, she sniffled back her dark moment, looked up at Em and smiled, “Get me a coffee. Black. While you’re there,” then turned to Vic, “Is my fucking mascara running? And don’t lie to me.”

“You look beautiful, Sis,” he leaned toward her, put a hand on her shoulder and gripped.

Emmett set her coffee down. “Here, Sweetie.” 

Debbie took a sip, regrouped, looked around, “You all look like a fucking dog pound. We should be celebrating…WHOEVER the fuck he is,” she slid off her seat, whipped out her checkbook and pen, “Okay. What’s everybody having?” Her usual bluster was still tinted with shock but recovering. While the others read menus, Debbie looked Brian over. “Is that for real?”

“It’s not for Halloween.”

Debbie smiled wide and yelled, “Hey, everybody. We got a fucking executive in the family again!” 

Followed by annoying rounds of “Congratulations!” “All right, BRIAN!” “Good to hear.” “You go, Baby!” and Vic’s “Does that mean you’re buying?” which got a poke from Debbie and Vic’s indignant, “Well I need to know before I order.”

“I’m not staying. I was just on my way to the office,” Brian took Justin’s hand, “But I’ll leave Justin at the door,” and led him outside against a background of orders in progress.

 

* * * * *

On Liberty’s busy corner, Brian stood facing Justin at the curb.

“We have a dinner meeting afterwards, so I’ll probably be back late.”

Justin nodded his understanding. “Brian? Do you think it was Scott?”

“I’d bet my dick on it.”

“Wonder why they never gave his name.”

“Knowing Scott…I’m sure he cut SOME kind of deal,” Brian closed in and held Justin’s shoulders. “Now wish us luck.”

Justin circled his arms around Brian’s neck and kissed him. Car horn beeps broke it off. “Later,” Justin whispered.

“Later,” Brian answered and strolled down the block to the car.

 

* * * * *

At a hotel restaurant, Brian opened his briefcase on the Table, saw Rheinholdt stab a look at the Neville folder. Good. They screwed you, too.

Rheinholdt started, “You mentioned a plan to expand WaveLight without disrupting the current system.”

“I’ll get to that in a minute. On the matter of salary, I AM considering another offer,” Brian slid a sheet from the Neville folder. “Can we meet somewhere between my former salary and this?” He handed the sheet to Rheinholdt, already going stone.

Rheinholdt took and read the paper. “We’re not Neville,” he stared at Brian’s steady eyes then drew a pen from his suit pocket, crossed out the Neville number, wrote his offer and handed it back. “That’s what I’m prepared to pay.”

Brian frowned at it, fingered his chin, shook his head. “That’s quite a difference. However…” he toned like he was about to do a big favor, “…we might be able to work out a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

Brian smiled, reached under the Neville folder and removed a dusk-sky folder with a simple blaze of white framing the logo Lightwave.

 

* * * * *

Late evening, Brian entered the dark Loft, moved in slowly. “Justin?”

Light burst from the tree lit with a myriad of tiny bulbs. On a futon cushion under it, Justin in jeans and a white tee shirt, sat back on his legs, bit his bottom lip and waited for a response.

“Beating the Christmas rush?” Brian paced toward him, eyes to the tree, back to Justin.

Justin leaned on an arm, gazed up. “If you sit here and look up, it looks like a lot of stars.”

Brian tilted his head at the display. Still looked like cheap lights in a tree. “I guess it could.”

“You have to really look,” Justin quirked a smile, stood up low to clear a branch and slid his arms around Brian’s neck, felt Brian’s arms surround him. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

Brian dropped his grip to Justin’s thighs and lifted him so fast, Justin gasped and nearly strangled him. Brian set him down as quickly, dove for his open mouth and tongue-fucked in every position, hands traveling Justin’s body as Justin’s hands pulled at his neck and hair.

They broke in tandem, foreheads touching.

Brian breathed, “Their health plan doesn’t include partners, but you’re covered.”

Justin backed off with a questioning look.

Brian raised a brow, “Do you think I’d even consider managing a new division without a head artist?”

Justin’s mouth gaped before his brows knit. “Is that another sex pun?”

Brian froze in thought, “I missed that one. Damn you’re getting good,” he chuckled then turned serious. “It’s no gold mine, but the job is open, if you want it.”

“Only if I can have them both,” Justin slid his hand over Brian's cock. “Mm. Definitely fits the description of a magnum load.”

“We’ll check it out after one last thing,” Brian held a key up to Justin’s nose.

“My very first office key,” Justin took and studied it.

“Actually…we’re IN our office,” Brian viewed his desk, Justin’s area, back to Justin. “It’s a condition of the deal. I have to cover extra expenses from Rheinholdt’s far less than lucrative offer.” When Justin’s brows furrowed and he held up the key, Brian added, “It’s your key to the safety deposit box for our contract. Don’t forget to sign the forms for the bank.” Brian stared at Justin’s wide eyes. “Well I had to put it SOME place…just in case another rat gets in here.”

Justin cleared his throat, recovered with a nod. “That’s right. Brian Kinney doesn’t DO sentimental,” he sly-grinned up, “Is that why you spent an hour looking for what you wore the first night we met?”

“Maybe that’s what YOU did,” Brian’s eyes shifted over each of Justin’s steady ones. He exhaled a breath and surrendered, “Five minutes. The other fifty-five was trying to convince myself what a ridiculous idea it was.”

“There’s hope for you yet.”

As they fused in a hug, Brian kissed Justin’s hair, leaned his cheek against Justin’s head and glimpsed the tree.

Fuck. It DID look like a lot of stars.

* * *

Song: “Perception (New Vocal Mix) by Cass & Slide

(Hope you enjoyed this side-trip along the wait for the real Season Four. London)


End file.
